


Small Death

by Ecliptic (SandandSeas)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Case Fic, Crime fic, Detectives, Detroit: Become Human - Freeform, Found Family, Gen, Hurt & Comfort, Police Procedural, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-05-14 22:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14778863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandandSeas/pseuds/Ecliptic
Summary: In the wake of revolution, Connor learns how to be human and Hank learns what humanity is. They solve crimes and the world changes around them.





	1. Tennis Ball

**Author's Note:**

> The Connor segments in D:BH were honestly the strongest the game offered. I liked how his character struggled with deviancy instead of pursuing it. I especially liked his relationship with Hank (the best written relationship in the game TBH)
> 
> I wrote this because I wanted to spend more time with them and I wanted to explore what kind of criminal underworld that a futuristic Detroit could produced. 
> 
> Spoilers and blantant butchery of coding abound. Enjoy!

Hank has lived in Detroit for his entire life. Has breathed the same air and walked the same streets since he was a child. The oldest cemetery in the city houses most of his mother’s family, along with his own wife and son.

One day it'll house him too.

The thing about living somewhere for so long is that at some point it becomes a part of you. As identifiable as DNA or fingerprints. He knows this city as well as he knows himself and he has never known silence. The frequency of his city was sirens and blues, the barely decipherable hum of digital billboards and automated cars. Silence was unnatural and the stillness of everything was setting him on edge. Even the snow was undisturbed, the only sign of human activity was his own haphazard footprints from where he paced in front of _The_ _Chicken Feed._

Hank blows on his hands, rubbing them together to get heat back into them. The sun was crawling out from the horizon and Hank really wishes that the government would lift the curfew  so he could get some goddamn coffee.

He twists on his heels and follows his footprints around another lap. Maybe he should go back to the precinct? Connor had said to meet him here but it had been hours and Hank’s phone had been busted in the fight. Connor could be dead in a ditch bleeding blue for all he knew.

“Fuck, where the hell are you?” Hank shoves his hands back into the depths of his coats and stomps his feet.

Silence makes for better acoustics under the overpass, and the crunch of snow under boots is louder than thunder and Connor is suddenly there. Alive with not even a scratch on his synthetically beautiful face.

He approaches, returns Hank’s gaze with a sway of his lips and Connor feels cool to the touch when Hank drags him into a hug that edges on desperate. The android's head thuds dully against Hank’s shoulder and Hank wants to shake the stupid out of his programming.

“Hello, Lieutenant.” Connor murmurs and Hank lets out a snort, breath fogging the air above Connor’s ear, “Hey kid.”

“I’m a deviant.” Connor says, voice empty.

“Yeah you are.” Hank pulls back and thumps Connor heavily on the shoulder, fingertips digging into the fabric of his jacket. The clothing is thin, soaked from the snow and Connor’s face shows no sign of distress, but Hank hisses anyway, “God, you’re freezing.”

“It is 30° Fahrenheit. While not optimal, my biocomponents can function at temperatures as low as -15° Fahrenheit.” Connor informs, but he seems to lean further towards Hank, towards warmth, “Though, Cyberlife did design me with advanced thermo-sensors to align with any possible environments that I may encounter while in the field, thus I am more sensitive to temperature changes than previous models--"

“Connor, just say you’re fucking cold.”

Connor looks up at him, and Hank decides then and there that deviancy for Connor was a goddamn upgrade, especially when Connor says, completely deadpanned, “I’m fucking cold.”

Shock burbles out into a laugh and Hank pulls Connor under his arm and swings him around to his side, “There you go! Not such a boy-scout now, are we?”

Connor ducks his head, the LED at his temple swirling blue, and Hank grins at the craziness of it all.

* * *

Time:

  Friday; November;

  12th;

  2038;

  9:34; AM ((UTC - 4)).

[Accessing_ Navigation_Protocols]

  **Start: The_Chicken_Feed:**

[[Subset_: Business_Restaurant_: Health_Code_Violation_4_

Imminent_Government_Shut_Down_January_1st_2039]]

**Destination: Residence_of_Lieutenant_Hank_Anderson:**

ETA: 7:59AM((UTC-4))

0_Hours

25_Minutes

15_Seconds

Status_?:

**[Safe]**

Mission_?:

**[Unknown]**

* * *

 

He guides Connor to his car, parked at the corner just beyond a police barricade. It takes him three attempts to get the engine to turnover (the old girl doesn’t like cold weather anymore than he does) but soon they are puttering down the empty streets. Connor doesn’t talk much, his attention focused outward as he watches the buildings shift by.

Hank reaches over, fiddles with the radio for a few seconds before settling on the local Jazz station that never seems to be off the air. It is run by a few college students at the University of Michigan and Hank appreciates their off-kilter hours. Especially now that Connor’s uncharacteristic silence was starting to drive home how strange the entire situation was, and Hank wasn’t quite ready to deal with that can of worms. Besides, Connor was privy to darker secrets than his love of Jazz.

Half an hour creeps by without notice and Hank doesn’t realize that he’s driven most of the way on auto-pilot until he’s cutting the engine in the driveway of his house. He sits back and glances over to his companion. Connor seems distracted, his body fully braced against the car door and his head pressed to the window. Hank would have thought him sleeping if his eyes weren’t open.

A thought enters his brain, “Do androids sleep?”

The question does the job of jarring Connor out of his weird mood, and his eyes shift towards him and he tilts his head in thought, “No. Androids do enter an ‘idle’ mode. During which they can clear caches of unnecessary data and perform small amounts of system checks and optimization tests.”

Hank hums, “So. You sleep.”

Connor opens his mouth, blinks, and then shuts it, “I’m... getting out of the car now.”

Hank laughs, opening the driver’s side door and pulling himself out of his car. Together they trudge through the ocean of new fallen snow to his front door. He fishes around his coat for his keys, digs them out only to pause. Hank takes a step back and holds out the keyring to Connor, “Go ahead. Do the honors.”

Connor takes it from him. He looks between the key and the door and Hank can see how he processes the new information; the LED goes from blue to yellow, and then back to blue. He steps further back as Connor slots the key into the door and twists the knob-

Sumo launches himself out from the darkness of the house and takes Connor down to the ground with two large paws to the chest. Connor hits the floor with a solid thud and his startled cry fills the space, “Ah! Sumo! Down boy! Down!”

Hank spent four weeks at the puppy academy when he first adopted Sumo five years prior. He wasn’t very diligent in his training, but Sumo did come out of it with four abilities: how to walk on the leash without dragging Hank behind him, how to sit on command, wait on command and, best of all, how to _lie down_ on command.

Sumo promptly drops down, draping his entire two-hundred-pound frame across Connor’s chest. Connor sputters as drool from Sumo’s jowls slips down onto his cheek.

“Hank!” Connor calls and Hank steps over their combined mass and enters the house, waving disinterestedly at his dog “No kill, Sumo. No kill.”

He switches on the lights as he shucks off his coat. Pulls his wallet and destroyed cell phone from his pockets and tosses them into the decorative bowl beside the door. He enters the kitchen next, sticks his head inside the fridge and says to the audience of expired milk and random assortment of condiments, “Television. On.”

In the living room he hears the faint click of the TV powering up and he grabs a beer and pops the lid with the can opener on the side of the fridge and makes his way back to the couch, just in time to see Connor walk through the front door, flicking dog slobber off his face with his hand and Sumo trotting at his side, looking happy as a dog could look.

Connor doesn’t quite glare at Hank, but it has the same general affect, “Your dog assaulted me, and you left me. Do I need to cite the term ‘betrayal’ for you, Lieutenant?”

Hank raises his eyebrows, and scratches Sumo behind the ears as he sits down at Hank’s hip, “Look at that, Sumo. Your chew-toy has got jokes now.”

“ _Betrayal. The act of betraying someone: violation of a person’s trust or confidence, of a moral standard, etcetera. Example: The betrayal of a friend. The betrayal of a partner--”_

“Oh, quiet down, Tin Can. Its dog slobber, it washes right off. Here, come with me.”

He guides the android down the hall, “You’ve been here before but bathroom's there if you need it.” He points to the door in front of him, “The guest room, you can use it to ‘idle’ if you want.”

Hank ducks into his room and loots through his dresser drawer, coming away with a pair of old jogging pants and a worn DPD Academy shirt that hasn’t fit him in the better part of twenty years. He holds it out to Connor, ignores the indecipherable expression as Connor looks between the proffered clothes and the spare-room, “Are you aware that I am perfectly capable of self-maintenance?”

“Shut up, Connor.” Hank pushes Connor into the room and throws the clothes into his arms, the android catching it with little grace, “Get out of those clothes and don’t think about it. I’ll be in the living room.”

He leaves Connor to the job of changing his clothes and settles down on the couch with a sigh, sinking deep into the cushions. The last two months ram into him suddenly and he feels a throb behind his eyes.

The woman on the news stares at him as she speaks:

  


_[The country is in uproar over the recent designation on President Warren’s part to temporarily halt all recycling plants. The U.S. Army was ordered to retreat last night after they were overwhelmed with android forces. Are we about to enter a new age for Human-Android relations? Correspondents to weigh in, stay tuned-]_

  


Hank must have dozed off because suddenly the news has switched to a police procedural that has been running for far too many seasons and Connor is kneeling over where Sumo is lying on his back in the corner, his belly upturned so that Connor has easy access to rub at it.

He changed, Hank notes with satisfaction. The clothes fit him well enough, a little baggy in areas where Hank carried more fat, but they did the job for now.

“See?” He croaks, shifting up over his knees, “Feel better, right?”

“This outfit is easier to move in, but not very durable. I would not be comfortable leaving the property in these clothes, but they will suffice for now.” Connor responds, and Hank chooses to take that as a yes.

“We’ll take you shopping later. You’re going to need more than just one set of clothes. Also, I’m sick of looking at that dorky outfit of yours day in and day out.”

Hank rises, his spine popping into place as he sets his lukewarm beer on the coffee table, “I’m going to take a shower. Make yourself at home.”

Connor tilts his head in acknowledgement but doesn’t respond. Hank stumbles off towards the hallway. Grabs some fresh clothes from the still open dresser drawer in his room on his way and closes himself into the bathroom.

He’s lathering shampoo in his hair and beard when the thought strikes him that besides Connor, the last person to be in his home since his wife died was an electrician when a storm knocked out his power. Connor’s presence in his home was strange, unobtrusive and quiet.  Vastly different from his constant questioning and endless nagging at the station.

Hank wonders what he’s doing bringing an android into his home without any concept of what his next step was going to be.

Outside, a revolution has turned the world upside-down. Years of legislation and laws and prejudice now up for debate, up for _change_. Hank’s been alive long enough to be able to sense the oncoming shitstorm on the horizon.

Then again, he doesn’t really care about any of that. The world has gone through enough messes for him to realize that he has little sway in the events to come. The only thing he cares about right now is whether Connor will be safe.

 _'Hank, you salty-dog. You’ve gone soft. Who’ve thunk you would’ve grown fond of a piece of plastic-’_ Hank pauses mid-rinse, cracks his neck and stares at the ceiling. He’ll have to adjust that way of thinking. Connor wasn’t just a piece of plastic anymore. He had something else. Humans playing God had created something with a soul. Hank can admit that the notion terrifies him a little bit.

He steps out of the shower, slips on the tile a little as he pulls a towel around his waist. He wipes condensation from the mirror, mindful of his post-it notes. He brushes his teeth, runs a comb through his hair and dries off. Clothes on. His normal, daily routine. Only a bit different. Everything is little different now.

Steam chases him out of the bathroom as he’s running a towel through his hair. He steps down the hallway, finds the living room empty and hears Connor moving around in the kitchen. Hank peers around curiously and finds him sweeping with a broom that Hank keeps around in the losing war against Sumo’s dog hair.

The kitchen is clean. Dishes washed and set to dry. The sink is scrubbed spotless and the counters smelled faintly of bleach. Hank doesn’t remember the last time he disinfected anything in his home. Didn’t even realized he owned bleach.

He leans against the threshold, watches on for a moment before asking, “What are you doing, Connor?”

Connor moves a chair out from under the table, sweeping methodically before setting it back. Adjusts the chair until it's perfectly angled against the rungs of the table, “Cleaning. You seem to not own a vacuum, Lieutenant.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the thought, but you don’t need to vacuum my house. What’s this about?”

Connor stills from his sweeping, and he’s staring at the ground with such focus that it could burn holes into the wood. Hank faintly wonders if Connor could actually burn holes into his floor. Do androids have laser-vision? Fuck, he doesn't know.

“Connor?”

“I don’t have a mission.” In the quiet, Hank can hear the whirl of fans emanating from underneath Connor's skin. A hum so unlike the sound of breathing. He’s never stopped to listen to that.

“What?”

“A mission. My mission. It was catching deviants.” Connor’s eyebrows pull together, pinched, “Then it was saving the deviants. Now… I don’t have a mission.” He looks up then and Hank sees the distress. His LED blinks red, “What is my mission?”

Well, fuck. What was his life that an android was having an existential crisis in his kitchen?

Connor watches him expectantly, like Hank has the answers in his back-pocket.

Hank has met the bottom of many a bottle asking himself a similar question. He’s not the best authority on the subject. Hank rubs at his face with an exhausted sweep of his hand. Takes a moment. Counts to ten. Then walks towards Connor, removes the broom from his grasp and sets it against the table, the android’s hands falling limply to his sides.

Hank straightens, gestures to the closet in the corner, “The cleaning supplies are in there. Your mission is not cleaning my house, but since you started my chores we might as well do them right.”

Connor jolts towards the closet and Hank grips him by the forearm. Connor’s LED is still that bright red, blinking softly before calming back to yellow, “Listen to me. Cleaning is not your purpose. You can do it if you want, I won’t stop you. Heck, I’m happy to have someone share the workload but I’m not going to make you do it, do you understand?”

Connor’s expression is confused. Hank isn’t used to the easy shifting of expressions and thoughts on his face. Part of him thinks it fabricated, just a part of Connor’s programming to ensure he succeeds in his environment.  Garner sympathy with his human counterparts. The other part of him recognizes that for the first time in Connor’s existence, no one is giving him orders. He has free-will now and if he isn’t careful, he’ll hang himself with it.

“I-” Connor starts, and Hank shakes him a little.

“You’re my partner. You’re a detective. Your purpose is the same as mine. I’ll talk to Fowler on Monday and get you back into the precinct, permanently. He’ll have an aneurysm and you’ll have a mission, everybody wins.”

“They won’t let me in.” Connor says miserably, and Hank is going to go crazy. He barely manages his own emotions and now he must coach his partner through them? Fuck him, what has he gotten himself into?

“We’ll figure that out when the time comes. Just… let’s clean the house. You finish up in here and I’ll start in the living room. I’ve been meaning to get under the couch for months. Sumo is missing like fourteen tennis balls and I’m pretty sure they’re all under there with the dust-bunnies.”

Connor stares at him and Hank refuses to let go until his LED melts into blue. Once it does, he releases Connor and lets him return to his task with renewed vigor.

Hank is exhausted. The only thing he wants to do is fall face first into his mattress and sleep. He observes Connor, sees the focus and desperation in his movements and groans quietly to himself.

Alright, in for a penny, in for a pound. Hank rolls up his sleeves and sets to work.

* * *

  Friday;November:

  12th:

  2038:

  11:15:AM((UTC - 4)).

Analyzing_Task:

[Assigned_Temporary_Mission]

Start_Task: Clean_House

[Subset: Kitchen_Bathroom_Bedrooms_Laundry_Trash]

Initializing_ Ongoing_Mission:

[Return_to_Detroit_Police_Department]

[Objective: Resume_Detective_Work]

* * *

Connor lifts his head, watches for a moment as Hank stubs his toe when moving the couch in the living room. Tennis balls rolling out of the line of fire as Hank curses loudly. Sumo chases lazily after one of them with his mouth, captures it and starts to gnaw gently on it.

The LED blinks green.

* * *

Initializing_ Ongoing_Mission:

[Stay_with_Lieutenant_Hank_Anderson]

[Objective: Ensure_Health_&_Wellbeing]]

Status_?:

**[Safe]**

Mission_?:

**[Unknown]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor, my child, my son.  
> Title based on Small Death by Kawala. This song really reminds me of Connor, just the sound, the melody, the way it feels achingly human. Gosh I'm going to make myself cry. ;u;
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the first chapter, I'll post again sometime in June!  
> \-------------------------------------------------  
> EDIT 11/11/18: Fixed typos, sentence structure and general wording to aid with the flow.   
> Beta'd by the great Kreeston. 
> 
> Spotify Playlist----> https://open.spotify.com/user/1237398088/playlist/6Um3PxR4psye9E7a2nJKK9?si=vQ1ZXwwQRTq9OC4KnaWPFg


	2. Coins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll are ridiculous, my God, 300+ kudos in like five days. Unheard of.
> 
> What can I say, you guys are so great. I hope you enjoy this installment as much as I did writing it.
> 
> Housekeeping:
> 
> Changed the coding language style up a little to make it easier to write. 
> 
> General Warnings: Cursing, whole fuckton of it. Warnings will get a little more serious in later chapters because this is a police procedural.

Monday morning arrives, and with it comes pure, unadulterated _chaos._

“Shit,” Hank says, stepping through the entrance of the precinct and immediately hitting a wall of people. The front desk is overwhelmed as the crowd pushes and shoves to get at the poor receptionist who appears to be torn between answering the ringing phone, addressing the numerous complaints being thrown at her, or possibly crying.

“While most of the Detroit’s law enforcement is human,” Connor comments quietly, moving to stand behind Hank, the sheer number of people making it hard to navigate the space, “They still had a 2:1 ratio of androids filling administrative roles.”

“The recall. It fucked the whole workforce.” Hank muses, and then, “Didn’t I tell you to stay in the car?”

“I should be the one to talk to Captain Fowler.” Connor responds, “It’s not your responsibility.”

“Bull _shit_ it’s not my responsibility. Get outta here befor-” Hank tries to turn, his shoulder ramming into the woman in front of him. She twirls on her heel, face pinched in frustration and Hank can pinpoint the exact second her focus shifts from him to Connor. The woman's eyes narrow dangerously. She jolts forward and before she can even utter a word, Hank is pushing her out of the way and dragging Connor deeper into the crowd.

“Plastic asshole!” Her screams chase after them and they draw the attention of the people standing nearby and Hank throws a hand over the back of Connor’s head, pushing it down to obscure the blinking target mark of his yellow LED light.

“This is why I said stay in the fucking car.” He hisses into Connor’s ear, somehow managing to get them to the side of the front desk and through the barricade. Officer Rodriguez is luckily distracted trying to keep people from jumping the line, so he only throws a brisk nod to Hank as he passes.

Hank pulls Connor around the corner to his desk, glancing towards the fishbowl that is the police captain’s office. Fowler is bent over his desk and Hank can see the vein damn near bursting from the man’s temple.

“There goes trying to catch him in a good mood.” Hank sighs, pushing Connor by the shoulder into his desk chair, “Don’t move.”

He expects Connor to ignore him; to trail after him like a puppy. Prepares for it, really. But Connor doesn’t move, doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s heard what Hank has said. His LED is still that nervous yellow and Hank notices how Connor is messing with his tie, continuously reaching up to fiddle it when it doesn’t need to be straightened.

“Kid, you alright?”  

Connor glances up, and then quickly away, his knee bobbing. Hank frowns, snapping his fingers in front of Connor’s unfocused gaze, “Hey, talk to me. Why’re you glitching, man?”

“I need to talk to the Captain. I need-” Connor grits out, temple flickering yellow, red, yellow. His hands are shaking now, small barely-there tremors.

Hank is aware of the eyes on them, felt them the moment he sat Connor down. The android’s presence was drawing them in like flies to a porchlight. He does his best to block Connor from sight with his back, leans over and whispers low, “What do you need?”

Connor closes his eyes, head dropping, “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Hank doesn’t need this right now. He growls under his breath, mind twisting around the problem.

A solution flashes, pushed forward by a memory. Hank reaches over and wrenches the top drawer of his desk nearly off the hinges and roots through the pile of rubber bands and paperclips until he unearths what he’s looking for.

“Here,” He grumbles, sliding a coin into Connor’s hand, “Mess with this.”

It does the trick, dragging Connor firmly back into the yellow as he starts to roll the quarter across his knuckles, flicking it to the opposite hand to do the same.

“Better?”

“It’s calming.” Connor says in revelation.

“Is it not supposed to be?”

Connor flips the coin, catching it between his pointer and middle finger with a sharp _cling,_ “It was how they tested our hand-eye coordination. With different sized coins. I remember the technician had to step out during my testing and he left the stack of coins on the table...”

“You stole it.”

“I- yes, I did.” His glances up, voice hesitant, “Can I keep this?”

“Yeah, man. It’s all yours.” Hank rubs his neck, “Look, Fowler is on edge and your presence is not helping. Shit’s tense, let me do the talking.”

Connor doesn’t look happy, mouth anchored down as he stares at his hands, “Okay.”

“Don’t move.” Hank hovers for a second more, just to make sure his partner doesn’t spontaneously combust. He is only able to pull himself away when Connor’s LED settles to blue. It’s eight in the morning and he’s ready to crawl into the nearest bar and drink himself to oblivion he’s so stressed. Hank turns towards Fowler’s office, squares his shoulders and climbs the stairs.

The door shuts behind him. It rings in his head like the final nail in his coffin. Fowler doesn’t even bother breaking his gaze from his monitor, voice clipped when he says, “Anderson, you better be planning on turning in your badge, or else you best be getting the hell out of my sight because I am _this close_ to terminating you.”

Hank scowls, “Jeffrey-”

Fowler sets down his tablet, rips his reading glasses away from his face to point at Hank with them, “You cold-clocked an FBI agent and then disappeared for three days without approval.  Do you know how much shit I had to deal with from the Chief of Police? What the _fuck_ were you thinking?! And what is _that thing doing here?”_

“I can explain-”

“Oh, you can explain.” Fowler throws his hands in the air, “Let’s hear it then.”

Hank scrubs at his face with an open-palm, willing his headache to go away. He hasn’t had a sip in days, every-time he tried opening a bottle Connor would look at him with that same neutral expression but now for some reason it feels like Hank had just kicked the fucking dog in front of him. He’s getting the fucking shakes and he knows withdrawal intimately, but damn would he give anything for just a drop of something to ease the process.

“Close the blinds” He says, feeling that prick Gavin’s beady eyes watching him from the bullpen and is slightly grateful when Fowler reaches over and taps his monitor. The walls grow a shade darker, turning the glass into a one-way mirror; covering them from the curious eyes of the precinct.

Hank breathes out and rolls his shoulders. He looks at Fowler’s smartboard, peering at the three muted windows of news coverage on the rebellion. It had been chaos all weekend as that android Markus had met with the President behind closed doors to negotiate peace. There were just as many rumors of androids returning to the workforce as there was of androids dissenting from Markus’ peace-based revolution.

Either way, people were scared.

Fowler taps his fingers impatiently against his desk and Hank sighs, decides to go for the riskiest play, “Connor is a deviant.”

It lands, and Fowler’s eyes widen, shifting out the window in a glance to Connor, “Is he dangerous?”

“You really think I would bring him into the precinct if he was dangerous? Jesus, Jeffery, you used to trust me once.”

“Don’t talk to me about fucking trust.” Fowler rises from his chair, slamming his hands down on his desk, “You're on thin ice with me, Hank.”

“I know!” Hank retorts, “Listen to me. I know I haven’t done anything lately for me to be able to ask this of you, but I need a favor. Bring Connor on. As a detective.”

Fowler massages the bridge of his nose, eyebrows drawn together, “You better be fucking with me. You _are_ fucking with me.”

“Please Jeffery. I’m begging you.”

Fowler’s mouth drops open, anger dissipating to be replaced by genuine shock. Hank doesn’t beg and the fact that he’s doing it now is enough to give him a chance.

Fowler looks him in the eye, searching for something that Hank is sure is written all over his face and the man sighs, lowering himself wearily into his chair, “You have five minutes to convince me. If you waste this time don’t bother showing your face to me ever again.”

Hank sits down in the stiff plastic chair, starts from the beginning, and doesn’t stop.

* * *

Time:

 Monday: November

 15th

 2038

 08:15_AM ((UTC - 4))

Order_ Input: Stay_Still

[Requestor: LT.ANDERSON_PREFERENCE_LEVEL_10]

[Subset: Objective_Return_to_Detroit_Police_Department_Resume_Detective_Work]]

Mission_Status: **Ongoing**

[Mission_Probability_of_Success_ 45%]

[Selecting_objective: await_further_inpu-]

! **WARNING!! IMMINENT_THREAT!**

* * *

 

“If it isn’t the plastic detective.” Gavin Reed descends upon him, blocking him in with a well-placed foot to the rungs of Connor’s chair, his body towering over him.

“Hello, Detective Reed.”

Gavin huffs out a laugh, and Connor detects nothing humorous behind it, “ _Hello,_ he fucking says. Why aren’t you in the dump, you piece of shit.”

Connor doesn’t say anything, programming searching for possible exits from what is sure to be an unpleasant interaction. None of the other officers meet his gaze, seemingly focused on any other object in the room besides Hank’s corner.

Gavin smacks him upside the head with his tablet, “What is it Barbie, can’t fucking speak?”

Silence isn’t a viable option. Connor selects a different route, “I have nothing of importance for you, Detective Reed. Please leave me alone.”

Wrong option. Gavin drags Connor nearly out of the chair by the collar of his shirt, “You think you fucking can walk in here with that slush of a partner and act like hot shit? I know it was you who broke into the evidence room, you’re the reason they won aren’t you? I should have recycled your ass day one---”

“Reed!” Captain Fowler hollers at a thunderous pitch. The room quiets, all pretense of willful ignorance disappearing as the occupants of the bullpen look on in interest.

Gavin's face is inches from Connor's and Connor can feel the heat of his breath as the detective responds with a calm, “Sir?”

“If you have so much time to be playing around then I have enough paperwork to keep you stuck to your desk until the end of the year.”

Gavin doesn’t look at Fowler, but the fist around Connor’s shirt loosens and Connor falls back into his seat with little grace, “No Captain, I’m alright.”

“Then get back to your desk. Connor. In here.”

For a moment, Connor isn’t sure that Gavin is going to let him go. The detective’s face is still contorted in disgusted rage, but then the moment passes, and Gavin is stepping back. Giving Connor just enough room to scramble out of his chair.

He passes, tension bubbling across his neck as Gavin whispers, “I’ll get you later, Barbie.”

Connor stills at the threat, the desire to turn around and swing his fist into Gavin’s jaw so strong that Connor physically aches with it. He could do it too, there was nothing stopping him. He wants to-

“Connor!” Fowler barks, “Do I have to submit it in writing? Get your ass in here!”  

Connor straightens his shoulders, fingers clutched around his coin. He hurries up the stairs and dips into Fowler’s office.

Hank is on him immediately, glaring pass Connor’s shoulder into the bullpen, “He didn’t touch you, did he? I fucking hate the guy.”

“I am unharmed, Lieutenant.”

“Should’ve punched him in the fuckin’ jaw, that’s what you should’ve done.” Hank mutters and Connor’s mouth twitches.

“If you ladies are done braiding each other’s hair.” Fowler interrupts, impatient, “Then let me just say this.”

Fowler points to Connor, “I don’t care for you. I don’t know what you are and quite frankly this entire mess is beyond me. But-” He adds suddenly, holding a hand out to stop Hank from speaking, “You're efficient and quite possibly the only fucking thing on God’s green earth that can put up with this asshole day in and day out. This is my deal. This is the only deal.”

He leans over the desk, hands steepled, “You can remain in my precinct for the time being. You do not get a gun because it is illegal for you to carry one. Keep your nose clean, keep your partner in line, and maybe we’ll all make it to the other side of this in one piece. You mess up, you even so much as _breathe_ wrong, I will not hesitate to remove you. Am I clear?”

Without hesitation, “Crystal, Captain.”

“Anderson, you're walking a fine line. Clean up your fucking act.”

Hank sneers but he throws out a diplomatic, “Yes sir.”

Fowler falls back in his chair and jerks his head to the door, “Get the fuck out of here.”

Hank stands swiftly, exiting the office. Connor trails after, feeling Gavin’s eyes on him the moment he steps back into the bullpen. It’s quiet, save for the distant roar of complaints in the reception area filtering into the space.

Hank hits his desk, slams his hand down on the surface and glares at the room, daring anyone to meet his gaze, “Ya’ll got a problem?”

Everyone looks away and returns to their reports. Hank collapses into his chair, dropping his head into his hands, leaning over his keyboard like he’s seconds away from attempting to type with his nose, “Assholes. Every single one of them.”

“What now, Lieutenant?”

“Now?” Hank all but cries, “Now, we fill out paperwork.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, for any of you readers who are the interactive type. I have a Spotify playlist for this fic. It's collaborative. Do with that information what you will. Expect the next chapter towards the end of June, or maybe earlier. Depends on which way the wind blows.  
> Spotify Playlist (It's Collaborative!) ----> https://open.spotify.com/user/1237398088/playlist/6Um3PxR4psye9E7a2nJKK9?si=vQ1ZXwwQRTq9OC4KnaWPFg
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT 11/11/18: Fixed typos, sentence structure and general wording to aid with the flow.   
> Beta'd by the great Kreeston


	3. Desk Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my pretties,
> 
> Bit of a shorter chapter today, I'm about to dig deep into the crime procedural portion of the fic which I'm super, super excited for. So buckle your seatbelts and get your detective hats on, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

The office is comforting in all the wrong ways.

The couch is soft, plush with a calculated number of pillows within arm’s reach. Abstract paintings contained in white frames occupy one wall of the office, while the opposite wall houses a giant window where Detroit’s skyline stands silhouetted against the early Saturday morning sun.

There is no clock, but Hank knows it’s been fifteen minutes since he sat down.

Hank frowns, shifting awkwardly on the couch cushion and crossing his arms. He sneaks a glance at the woman in the armchair across from him. Dr. Teresa Stewards is young. A lot younger than he expected her to be. The kind of young woman that had naïve eyes and a kind smile. She gave off an air of someone who was easy to talk to, and everything about her had Hank on the defensive.

A goddamn shrink. As if his week hadn't been bad enough.

“How much longer?” Hank says, gritting his teeth. She hadn’t said anything pass the polite greeting she gave him when he sat down, and the silence was palpable.

Dr. Stewards hums, tapping at her tablet, “Forty-five minutes. It’s an hour session, Lieutenant.”

Forty-five minutes. He’d rather eat glass, “Thought I was supposed to be talking about my feelings or some shit.”

“Would you like to talk about something?”

“Ain’t nothing to say.”

“Well.” She says, smiling, “I guess that’s that.”

Hank squints at her, taps his foot against the floor in aggravation.

“I have to do this every week?” He asks, not two minutes later.

“Yes,” Dr. Stewards responds, “Once a week as was requested by your Captain.”

“Requested?” Hank snorts, “More like sentenced.”

“Do you find your time with me to be a punishment?”

“No,” Hank answers honestly, “The two weeks of mandatory desk duty I’ve been assigned before I can do my goddamn job is punishment. This?" He gestures at her and her office, "This is just annoying.”

She takes a second to type something on her tablet, and Hank knows that method. Has used it in the interrogation room. Make them question what is going down on record, make them sweat with it.

“Why do you think that is? That Captain Fowler wanted you to come here today.”

Hank wants to laugh in her face. He knows why. He knew it the Tuesday after he got Connor back into the precinct when he found pamphlets for local AA meetings and a business card for the good doctor stacked neatly on his desk.

Fowler had found leverage over Hank and he was pressing into it with everything he had.

Dr. Stewards is still looking at him, and Hank shrugs, “He wanted to piss me off.”

“I see.” She says, and then, “The last thing I want is for you to be angered by our sessions, but I can see that you need this more than you realize-”

Hank glares at her, feels his mouth curl at her words, “Look, I don’t need you to explain to me how fucked up I am. I’m aware. I just need you to sign off to show that I _‘participated'_ so that I can get back to fucking work. Alright?”

Hank rises, grabbing his coat from the back of the couch and starts to shove his arms through the sleeves. Dr. Stewards watches him through the process, continues to watch as he stalks off towards her office door.

His hand is twisting the doorknob when she finally speaks, voice ever so gentle, “Tell me about your partner.”

“What about him?” He says, speaking into the door.

“His name is Connor, right?”

He turns, levels her with a look and she gestures to the couch, “Come on, Lieutenant. We both know you’re not doing this for yourself.”

He stands there, frozen between bolting and staying. Fingers twitching with the decision.

“I’ll make you a deal.” She adds, “Your captain stipulated that you can only return to active duty if I sign off each week that you’ve attended our sessions. I won’t make you talk but I do need you to show up.”  

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” Hank says quietly.

She pats the cushion, voice ringing like a bell, “Not in the slightest.”

* * *

Time passes in a slow, unsympathetic slough through the backlog of incident reports that Fowler piles onto their desks each morning.

Connor sets to work without complaint, but by the Monday of the second week Hank is damn near ready to shoot himself.

“Lieutenant, I am sensing increased levels of irritation from you. Should we take a break?”

Hank leans back in his chair, bangs the back of his head on the divider wall and curses, “I fucking hate paperwork.”

Connor doesn’t open his eyes, but Hank sees him trying not to smile, “Seeing the amount of unfiled reports left under your purview, I assumed as much.”

“I feel like there was judgement in that tone, Connor.”

“None, Lieutenant. Only ongoing astonishment for your work ethic.”

“You used to be nicer.” Hank grumbles, but it sounds fond, even to his own ears.

“You used to be meaner.”

“Smartass.” Hank launches a crumpled post-it over the divide of their desks and Connor catches it with ease, tossing it into his wastebasket, “Did they design all androids with the ability to sound so fucking smug, or are you just special?”

Connor doesn’t miss a beat, “The RK800 series was promoted on its ability to adapt. I would say it’s all learned behavior, Lieutenant.”

Hank huffs, leaning back over to his computer and gazes unhappily at the document. The cursor blinks mockingly at him. One more week, one more week.-

Connor shifts, opening his eyes for the first time since he sat down. Hank has never envied his ability of being able to submit reports without typing a single word more. The android stands, adjusting the cuffs of his new dress shirt; a charcoal gray one that they had recently purchased over the weekend. Connor's taste in clothing tended to air on the side of cool-toned neutrals. Blacks and grays and blues that mixed and matched without complication. Functionality over fashion that contrasted heavily against Hank's own preference for wild patterns.

The six or seven outfits they had walked away with had costed Hank nearly a month's salary, but if it provided Connor with some sense of identity then he was glad to pay it.

“Your productivity is decreasing. I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”

Hank opens his mouth, and Connor adds, “ _Decaf_ coffee.”

Bastard.  

“Anderson,” Fowler’s voice is sudden, causing Hank to swivel around in his chair to look at the man, “My office, now. Connor, you as well.”

Hank exchanges a look with his partner, before also rising from his desk.

“Anderson, you're reinstated effective immediately.” Fowler says as soon as the door shuts behind them and Hank blinks, “It’s only been a week.”

“Yeah, well.” Fowler shoots back, “Your walking filing cabinet there has blown through the entire database. For once in my history at this precinct I can finally say that I am officially caught up for the year.”

Hank opens his mouth, closes it and then turns on his partner, “What have you been working on?”

“Last year’s casework.” Connor responds, as if it was obvious.

“Ah. Well then.” Hank nods, rotating back towards Fowler, “What about Connor? Has he been cleared as well?”

“I can do you one better.” Fowler reaches into his desk drawer, pulls out a thick manila envelope and sets it down on the surface, “Connor, you’re one lucky son of a bitch.”

Connor steps forward and picks up the envelope, peering into it with interest. He digs into it, after a moment pulling out a shiny leather wallet and handing it to Hank, who flips it open to reveal a newly-minted detective badge. At the very top of the ID, printed in fresh black ink, is Connor's name.

“Welcome to the force, Detective.” Fowler says, with little celebration. “And before you even ask, you don’t want to know the legal hoops I had to leap through to get you that badge. The government’s desperate to get the industry moving again. You’ve been afforded special clearance due to your...unique _capabilities.”_

Connor takes the badge from Hank, runs his thumb over the DPD insignia, expression unreadable.

“Thank you, Captain.” He says quietly, after a moment.

Fowler flaps his hand, flinging off the android’s sentiment gruffly, “Don’t fuck this up. There is going to be all manner of folk crawling up my ass to keep tabs on you. You get a speck of dirt on anything you do, and this is going to come crashing down on you like a bag of bricks.”

Connor straightens his back, clutches the badge close to his chest, “Yes sir. I understand.”

“So, we’re back on.” Hank adds when Connor falls silent; the idea of finally getting away from his desk filling him with more energy than he's had in days.

Fowler sighs, leaning back into his chair, “Yes, as much as I would love to have you both sit on your asses and twiddle your thumbs for another week on principle alone, I need you elsewhere.”

Fowler taps his monitor and the smart board along the wall of his office lights up.

Hank whistles low, stepping back to gaze at the wall, “That’s a lot of blood.”

“A case?” Connor says, and if Hank knew better, he’d say the android was giddy by the lilt in his voice, “What do we know?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Darrow, murdered last night in their bed.” Fowler hands them a tablet each, the initial report outlined on the screens. Connor shifts through it as Hank enlarges the family portrait, “Pretty couple. The killer did a real number on their faces.”

“The initial report states that there’s three victims?” Connor asks.

“Mrs. Darrow was expecting. Third trimester.”

“Fucker." Hank taps the screen, reading down the family demographics, "They also had a daughter?”

The smart board shifts; a teenager with a wide, bright smile stares back at them, “Michelle Darrow, sixteen. Was studying at a friend’s house and lost track of time. Came home a little after midnight to find the front door wide open. She was the one that called it in.”

“Where is she now?”

“Mrs. Darrow had a sister who lives about thirty minutes outside the city. She’ll be bringing Michelle in later today so that her statement can be taken. The poor girl was pretty torn up last night, the officer at the scene couldn’t get much out of her.”

Hank shakes his head, “Brutal.”

Connor pauses in his scrolling, head snapping up, “Wait, this is-”

“Why I wanted you on this case.” Fowler finishes, gesturing to the smartboard, “Look familiar?”

A photo of the couple’s bedroom, this time opposite of their bed, takes over the screen. Carved deeply into the wall, over and over again-

“rA9.” Hank breathes, “An android did this?”

“That’s what I want you to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea when I'm going to post. Lets just say I may get another two chapters in before July if ya'll keep on liking it the way you do, so let me know!  
> \--------------  
> Spotify Playlist----> https://open.spotify.com/user/1237398088/playlist/6Um3PxR4psye9E7a2nJKK9?si=vQ1ZXwwQRTq9OC4KnaWPFg
> 
> EDIT 11/11/18: Fixed typos, sentence structure and general wording to aid with the flow.   
> Beta'd by the great Kreeston.


	4. Paulie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my pretties. 1000 kudos, I'm over the moon. I can't believe everyone is liking this story so much. It makes it so much more enjoyable to write when I know everyone is looking forward to what I produce. Thank you everyone! 
> 
> This chapter took some doing, I am not an expert on crime scene investigation practices or protocols so take this all with a grain of salt. 
> 
> Warnings:  
> Slight graphic imagery of a crime scene. Nothing over the top but proceed with caution.

The Darrow home was humble, nesting in one of the sleepier suburbs of the city. 

CSI technicians swirl in and out of the property like ants on a mound. Their sterile white protective coveralls blending into the snow. Hank nods to one of them as he passes her at the gate. Ducks his head low to avoid the flash of cameras and the shouts of reporters that block the sidewalk.

Paulie is waiting for them on the porch, his mustache twitching into a sneeze, “Ah fuck, it's cold.”

“Want a hug?” Hank shoots back, stomping his feet on the wooden deck, “Warm you right up.”

“Buy me a drink first, Lieutenant. Though-” Paulie tilts his head to the side, thoughtful, “I hear that ain’t your scene anymore.”

Hank snorts, swiping his hand under his snotty nose, “Fowler’s got me on the program.”

“Ah,” Paulie says, looking over Hank’s shoulder to where Connor is standing, eyebrows raising, “Keepin’ the ‘droid?” 

“Connor.” Hank corrects, “Yeah, he’s with me.”

“Good shit. Come in, the bodies are upstairs. You’re on time for once; we were about to cart them off to the coroner’s office.”

The house is dark, curtains still drawn and the living room is illuminated by a dusty lamp in the far corner. Somehow it’s colder inside than it was in the snow and Hank shivers. He feels it, standing there. In the tennis shoes piled up by the stairwell and the toothy photos clinging weakly to the walls; the sinking feeling of death.

Hank pulls his coat tighter to his chest, shoves his hands deep into the pockets. Next to him, Connor plays with his coin, eyes roaming around the space, “Michelle Darrow contacted 911 at 12:57AM. Would you like to hear the report?”. 

“Yeah,” Hank says, inspecting a photo on the nearby wall. Three smiling faces, eyes glassy, “Let’s hear it.”

Connor’s LED circles, his expression perfectly neutral and from the depths of somewhere dark and unsettling, he opens his mouth and a voice that does not belong to him crawls out, “ **_911\. What’s your emergency?--_ ** _ Help!-- Oh my god, please help! --  _ **_Ma’am, please calm down, tell me what is going on_ ** _ \--  _ **_what’s your name?-_ ** _ M-my name is Michelle--  _ **_Michelle, are you safe?_ ** _ \- Please! Send an ambulance-- Mom? Wake up, oh please just wake up-- Daddy?--  _ **_Michelle, I’ve got your location. The police are on their way to you right now, I need you to stay calm and tell me what is going on_ ** _ \-- They aren’t moving! Why aren’t they waking up--pleaseplease- I’msorryMomI’msosorry-Just wake up. WAKE UP-”  _

Hank shoves his hand over Connor’s mouth, muffling the audio of Michelle Darrow’s screams. 

Around them the room has quieted, every technician frozen in their tasks as they look on in horror. Silence weighs down on them as Connor stares at him in confusion. Hank hears Paulie whisper, “Jesus Christ.” 

Hank grabs Connor by the arm, pulls him close and barely restrains himself from shaking the kid, “What kind of game are you playing, asshole?”

Connor glances around the room, voice normal when he says, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. That was the auditory playback for my model. ”   


“Auditory playb-- What is wrong with you?”  

Connor’s expression pulls together, “You said you wanted to hear the rep-”

“Never mind what the fuck I said. Fuckin’ think for once-” Hank’s anger cuts off sharply when Connor flinches and Hank grunts, pushing Connor out of his way, “Just don’t-- don’t do it again.”

He ascends the stairs, ignoring the feeling of Connor’s eyes on his back as he climbs. Paulie is waiting for him at the top, mouth opening in comment, “That-” 

“Don’t say anything about it, Dyer.” 

Paulie holds up his hands in defense, “Alright, don’t bite my head off.”

“What else do we got?” Hank tosses out, a choppy change of subject, “Did you find the murder weapon?”

Paulie, wise to Hank’s ways, allows the transition, “Bagged and tagged and on it’s way to the lab now. Weapon was a meat cleaver from the kitchen. Wouldn’t have been my first choice with how dull it was. But hey, what do I know?”

“Let me guess, no prints?” 

“None. No sign of struggle, nothing was stolen.”

“Rules out robbery. This their room?“

Paulie nods, pushing open the door for Hank. It whines on its hinges and the first thing that Hank sees is the bed and his throat constricts at the sight. The Darrow’s sheets are wrinkled under their mangled limbs, stains browning from exposure and setting into the green of the fabric. It smells of flesh and iron and Hank’s nose wrinkles at the scent.

"What’d were they like?” Hank asks, resisting the urge to cover his mouth. 

“Normal. Irritatingly so. Mr. Darrow owned a garage. Mrs. Darrow was a elementary school teacher. No criminal records, not even a parking ticket. According to the neighbors they were a sweet family, organizing block parties and baking cookies for the neighborhood around Christmas, shit like that. Hard to believe they pissed someone off this bad.” Paulie shakes his head, “You’ve got ten minutes before we bag them. Lemme know if you need anything.” 

“Thanks, Paulie.” 

Paulie waves, turns to leave and then, suddenly, laughs.

Hank rolls his eyes, “Connor out there? 

“Oh yeah, didn’t know androids could  _ pout. _ ” 

“Unbelievable. Tell him timeout's over, will ya?”

“You got it, Hoss.” 

Hank moves around the room, taking stock of the blood splatter across the headboard and walls. 

Connor steps into the room moments later, stopping just inside the threshold. He fiddles with his coin, gaze firmly on the floor. A pathetic series of  _ clinging  _ fills the air. It’s the same look that Sumo has when he’s chewed up one of Hank’s shoes. 

Hank melts, just a little. 

“I shouldn’t have yelled.” Hank mutters, rubbing his eyes, “You can’t be doing shit like that. It’s terrifying.” 

“I’m sorry.” Connor says quietly, “I didn’t realize that it would be unsettling.”

“It’s fine, just… clear it with me when you want to use one of those stupid  _ features  _ Cyberlife gave you. Shit’s weird, man.”

“I understand, Lieutenant.”  

“Good, put that thing away. What do you see?”

Connor pockets his coin, eyes darting across the room.

“Mr. Darrow’s throat was slit first-” he concludes after a moment,  “He was laying on his back, so the suspect leaned over him,” He mimics the action, hands hovering over the mattress, “Covered his mouth so that he wouldn’t wake up his wife.  Then the suspect assaulted Mrs. Darrow."

"Sounds about right, remove of the biggest threat first. That's what I would've done." Hank turns back to the wall and running his fingers along the carved valleys that spell out rA9.

“Lieutenant, the android appears to have been injured. There is Thirium mixed into the sheet.” Connor says aloud moments later and Hank's head whips around sharply, face draining of color, “Connor don't you fucking-"

Connor is already pinching the fabric of the sheet just at Mrs. Darrow’s thigh, lifting it high enough for him to bend over, his tongue flicking out to taste and Hank blanches, “ _Oh damn-_ Connor, what did I just say about-”

“The sample is from a GS300 line. An outdated model.” Connor reports, “Androids of this type were mainly designed for wharf work. Docking, ship repairs, fishing.”

“The closest wharf is thirty minutes across town. What was a ship android doing in this area?”  

Connor straightens, looks at the obsessive scrawl, “It doesn’t make sense. In the other cases where rA9 was used, the androids were abused, or living on the fringes of society. The Darrow’s didn’t seem to have any connection to any sort of android.” 

“rA9 supposed to be some sort of a God, right? Maybe it’s a sacrifice.” 

Connor appears to chew on that, gazing at the wall, “Why the sudden divergence? The other murders were in self-defense, they were senseless, done out of necessity. This is premeditated, seemingly random. Androids aren’t capable of killing like this.” 

Hank looks over the bodies, over the bloody channels that mark their faces and hands, “You sure about that?” 

Connor falls quiet at that, staring hard at the bed as if the solution would jump out from under it. Hank’s phone buzzes in his coat pocket and he drags it out, tilts the screen towards him to read the notification, “Michelle Darrow is at the precinct. We should go talk to her.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Paulie is based on who I think is the lead investigator in D:BH. He was the man who briefed Hank and Connor during 'Partners' at Carlos Ortiz's house. I don't believe he was ever given a name in-game so I took artistic liberties. His full name for Small Death is Paul 'Paulie' Dyer. 
> 
> There we go kiddies, I'm going to try to get another chapter out before Independence Day. 
> 
> (try being the operative word) 
> 
>  
> 
> Small Death playlist is on Spotify if any of ya'll are curious to what kind of music I use to write for this story. It's collaborative so add to it if you so fancy.  
> https:// open.spotify.com/user/1237398088/playlist/6Um3PxR4psye9E7a2nJKK9?si=CCw9ryTdTLaZ7FswrV-S9A


	5. Michelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Hank talk to Michelle Darrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hot minute guys, I'm so sorry for the wait. I got caught up with summer classes and then I had a cruise and its been so gosh darn busy. 
> 
> But I am sunburned, hungover and so refreshed. I heard Imagine Dragons new single 'Natural' and I'm like this a perfect Small Death song and it finally kicked my ass into gear to finish this chapter. I'll try to update a little sooner this time but bare with me. I'm a poor, working college student ;)

* * *

Michelle Darrow is sixteen years old. Athletic and tall with dark curly hair and equally dark eyes. Her school picture has her smiling, blinding and dimpled. 

But that was before.

The sharp, whining fluorescent light emphasizes the gauntness of her cheeks. She has a single, angry pimple on her chin and her hair is greasy, piled high on her head, held together with a fraying hair-tie. She is stunted, curving inward and down and she is so terribly, terribly young.

Hank enters quietly, the door sliding open with the softest of sounds. Michelle’s eyes raise minutely, shiny and lost and Hank knows the pain he sees within them. Knows that sorrow so bone-deep.

Michelle’s aunt sits to her side, hand rubbing absent-minded circles against Michelle’s back. Hank nods to her first, “Mrs. Eddings? Lieutenant Anderson.”

The woman stands, shakes his hand with a surprisingly strong grip, “Rebecca, please. My husband wanted to be here today but he’s been overseas for the last week. His flight won’t be in for another few hours. This-” Her voice breaks slightly, eyes dropping down to Michelle, “This has been difficult to navigate as you can imagine.”  

“I can.” Hank says, more honest than either woman could know, “I am sorry for your loss. If possible my partner and I would like to ask both of you some questions. Would either of you like some coffee or water before we get started?”

“Of course, and no I’m fine. Michelle? Honey, would you like something?”

A shake of the head.

Hank settles down on the couch across from her, Connor doing the same after a delayed second. Hank catches the android’s glance as he sits; unsure and yielding as if to say, _‘I’m going to let you take the lead on this one.’_

“Michelle, can you tell me about what happened?”

Micelle stares at the floor, mouth drawing into a straight, taunt line. A tear escapes, hits her wrist as she squeezes her knees together.

Her aunt throws her arm more fully around her and rubs at Michelle’s shoulder with a trembling thumb, “Go on, honey.”

“I-” The cut-off of a sob, a dip of the head, “After dinner, I went to Samantha’s house.”

"Samantha Walsh.” Connor supplies immediately, LED bright from under his bangs. “Seventeen. Grade 11. Current residence: 1449 Kings CT. 1.2 miles from the crime scene. ”

Michelle blinks away a few more tears, eyes widening as she finally looks at Connor, “You’re an android.”

“I am an RK80-” Hank elbows him hard in the side. Connor doesn’t so much as flinch, but he stutters over his next words,“I- I am here to help. Please don’t mind me.”

“An android is assigned to my sister’s murder? Is that even allowed?” Rebecca asks, the corners of her mouth pulling down and Hank notes her tone, “We’re both assigned to the Darrow case and I promise you we are doing everything in our power to locate the person who is responsible for this.”

Rebecca doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she doesn’t raise any more objections. Hank turns back to Michelle, drawing her attention back to him, “Why were you at Samantha’s house?”

“We have a history test on Tuesday. I was helping her study for it. She missed the review Friday.”

“Your parents didn’t mind you being out on a school night?”

She shrugs, a dead-weighted motion, “I’ve been friends with Samantha since we were kids. Her dad even works at my dad’s garage fixing cars and stuff. It wasn’t a big deal.”

Hank makes a note to talk to the Walsh family, underlines the name twice in his notebook, “How long were you studying for?”

“Um? I got there around eight? We studied for maybe four hours. Then I left.”

“You walked home?”

“I usually cut through the neighbor’s yard.”

“When you approached your house, did you see anything suspicious?”

Michelle grips the fabric of her jeans tighter, knuckles white and boney with the strength of it, “I came up and saw that the gate was open. I thought it was weird. Mom is really anal about shutting it at night. The front door was open too. I thought at first i-it was the wind. Maybe it didn’t latch right or something. I went inside and I took off my shoes. I went upstairs and I brushed my teeth in the bathroom.”

“And then you went into your parents room?”

Her eyes squeeze shut, and her words come out as a whisper, “They always wanted me to knock on the door when I got home. No matter how late. Mom hated waking up in the middle of the night not knowing if I was home. Usually I- I knock and they knock back. When I did it last night, they didn’t respond. So I knocked louder. When I didn’t hear anything I opened the d- the door-” She falls over her knees, hands coming to dig into her sockets as she shakes, the room filling with her quiet sobbing.

“Michelle, I know this is hard.” Hank says, gently, “Just a few more questions.”

She nods, not removing her hands from her face.

“Can you think of any reason someone would want to hurt your parents? Someone who wasn’t happy with them or anything like that?”  Hank asks, and Michelle’s body freezes. Suspended for a second before she’s shaking her head vigorously.

Her aunt glares at them, impatient, “Emily and Jay were good people. Whoever did this is a monster. Plain and simple.”

“Of course ma’am.” Hank says, placating, his eyes remaining on Michelle. There is something about her demeanor, the way she curls away from her aunt’s hand that feels...odd.

Hank looks at his watch, glances at Connor who is watching Michelle with the same curious intensity that he’s come to expect from the android.

“Connor, will you take Michelle into the break room for a little bit. I want to ask Rebecca a few questions.”

“Of course, Lieutenant.” Connor stands, holding his palm out for Michelle. Stance and expression relaxed and warm, “Would you like to come with me for a few minutes?”

Michelle looks at the offered hand, eyes rimmed red and nose raw. Hank counts it as a success on Connor’s part when she sets her hand into his and he leads her out of the room.

Rebecca Eddings watches the exchange with narrowed eyes, body perched at the edge of the cushion like she’s about to rush after her niece, “He won’t do anything to her, will he?”

Hank’s smile tightens, and he shakes his head, “Tell me about your sister and her husband.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Time:

 Monday; November;

 22th;

 2038;

 11:32;AM((UTC - 4))

[CONSTRUCTING_PROFILE____MICHELLE_DARROW]

[Subset: SEX_FEMALE_EYES_DARK BROWN_HEIGHT_5’7_ WEIGHT_135LBs_AGE 16_BORN: DECEMBER_17th_2022_ 11th GRADE_ GPA: 3.9_MOST RECENT TWITTER POST_HANDLE_: **Miss_Sea_Shell1217** @ **_SammyGirl_ ** _ _“I would literally stab someone for extra credit, is that bad?*//cryingemoji//*_*//cryingemoji//*_*//cryingemoji//*__ 11/21/2038_8:45pm]

[Subject_Stress_Level: **High** ]

[OBJECTIVE_talk_to_ subject_]

[INITIALIZING_QUESTIONING_ TECHNIQUE_#12975]

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Connor has never tasted the coffee in the breakroom. He has on good authority that the substance tastes like ‘shit with tar mixed into it’ and on repeated viewings of his fellow colleagues trying to consume the beverage he is apt to believe it.

He decides to make Michelle tea.  

He sets two steaming mugs down on the high-top table and pushes one closer to her, before clasping his hands behind his back, “You like chamomile, right?”

She takes it into her hands and stares down into it. Silence settles around them and after a few, long minutes she looks at him, “Are...can you um...sit down? Please?”

Connor tilts his head, LED blinking at the request. He settles down in the stool, automatically brings his hands to wrap around the mug, the heat of the ceramic bleeding into the sensors of his palm.

“How did you know I like chamomile?” Michelle says, after a moment.

“Your last three visits to the Starbucks closest to your school shows that you prefer herbal teas. Chamomile being your most common choice.”

“Oh.” She says, shifting the mug between her hands, “That’s…um. That’s really creepy actually.”

Connor drops his gaze, a sudden sense of wanting to pull out his quarter making his fingers twitch against his mug, “I apologize. My partner tells me I often do actions that are considered unsettling. I’m still learning what those things are. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No! You didn’t. I’m not used to… talking with androids. I guess.” Michelle’s face grows red, and she quickly lifts her mug to her lips tilting her face away.

Connor lifts his own mug and takes a sip and Michelle watches the action curiously, “You can taste that?”

Connor looks down at his mug and then back to her, “In a sense. Most androids are outfitted with taste receptors similar to that found on a human tongue.”

“Why? It's not like androids need to eat or drink, right?”

“Correct. However, research shows that humans tend to feel more comfortable with androids who can simulate human qualities, such as blinking or eating. It is very useful for androids who fulfill companion roles and are expected to cook or partake in a meal.”

She looks between them and her face lights up with understanding, “Is that why you made two? To make me feel more comfortable?”

Connor nods, a small motion, “Was...that wrong?”

Her mouth twitches, “No. You're kinda weird, did you know that?”

His voice drops into a register that would be recognizable as _petulant,_ “Lieutenant Anderson would agree with you on that.”

She laughs at him then. It’s heavy and broken, like something lost dredged from the bottom of a dark ocean, but Connor still finds it pleasing.

Michelle sobers quickly, “You want to ask me about my parents, right? That’s why you got me away from my aunt.”

Connor evaluates the option of lying to her. Goes through the simulations of each interaction and discovers that he only wishes to tell her the truth, “You apologized to your mother when you found their bodies. Why were you sorry?”

Her eyes close, and she takes a deep breath, before lifting her gaze back to him, “Will it help you find the person who did this?”

Connor nods.

Her jaw tightens and she drops her head.

“Okay.” Michelle whispers, and then, a little steadier, “Okay.”

* * *

Hank watches as Michelle Darrow exits the breakroom rounding the corner to be drawn into her aunt’s waiting arms. It strikes him how similar they look. The family resemblance making itself known in the way their mouths pull back in their shared grief.

Connor comes up behind them and speaks with Michelle for moment. Guides them down the hall to the precinct entrance and waits until they’ve disappeared from sight before returning to Hank.

“Anything?”

Connor reaches for his coat, “We need to talk to Christopher Walsh. Mr. Darrow was having an affair.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna try to post again before August. Keep hitting that kudos and dropping comments. It guilts me into writing.
> 
> I've gained two followers on the Small Death Playlist *narrows eyes* which of ya'll is it.


	6. Ambien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hewwoooo my pretties. I'm not too late this time, am I ;). Ya'll your comments are my lifeblood. They keep me going when nothing else does. Thank you so much. 
> 
>  
> 
> Housekeeping:
> 
> Warning: Brief description of suicide. Again nothing graphic but proceed with caution.  
> National Suicide Prevention Lifeline  
> Call 1-800-273-8255

_D &W Automotive _ is a dingy, three chamber garage hidden in one of the more downtrodden industrial sectors of the city. Upon entering the reception area, Hank is assaulted with the scent of gasoline and tire rubber. 

The guy at the front desk is young. Pimpled with the bridge of his nose smeared in gunk and oil stains on his coveralls. He glances up at their entrance, pushes his glasses higher up on his nose; his nametag is scratched and faded from use and Hank can barely make out the shaping of ‘Justin Alvarez’ 

“Yo, how can I help you?” Justin says, looking at Hank and then at Connor, “Oh sorry man, we don’t allow androids here. Boss man’s policy.”

“Yeah, I think you’ll make an exception just this once.” Hank flashes his badge and Connor copies the action, “Where can I find Christopher Walsh?” 

Justin narrows his eyes, scanning Hank’s credentials with suspicion, “He’s in the back, buried under a _442_. I’ll go grab him for you.”

Hank glances at the doorway tucked away in the far corner behind the desk, snaps his badge shut, “Nah, we don’t mind a little grit n’ grime. Connor?”

“Not at all, Lieutenant.”  

“Hey! You can’t go back there-” 

The sound of drilling echoing off of the cinder-block walls drowns out the Justin’s warbling. There are two cars suspended overhead; each of them old American muscle that if Hank had less pressing matters, would have loved to sit himself down under and feel nostalgic about.

It takes a minute of looking for them to find him and Hank’s first impression of Christopher Walsh is two long legs sticking out from under a car in the far corner; booted foot tapping rhythmically on the concrete floor. 

“Christopher Walsh?” Connor says politely, approaching the front of the car, “DPD, we have a few questions for you.”

No answer, the foot keeps tapping. “Mr. Walsh” Connor tries again, a hair louder than the muffled music coming from beneath the car.

“Here, let me.” Hank trades places with Connor, clearing his throat before slamming his fist down hard on the hood.

A sharp, painful bang sounds and then, “Fuck! Justin! Fucking warn a gu-” Walsh slides out from under the vehicle, face oil-black and stormy, “Who’re you? Customers aren’t allowed back here.” 

Hank drops his badge down in front of Walsh’s face and lets him squint at it.

“I didn’t do nuthin.” He pulls himself up, grabs the hand towel draped over the side-mirror in a futile attempt to clean his hands, “Everything here is legit.”

“We haven’t accused you of anything.” Hank says idly, “Strange you would jump to that conclusion.” 

“We just need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Walsh.” Connor adds. 

Walsh grits his teeth, and the smile he gives is anything but welcoming, “I put in my nickel, detective. I don’t like to interact with law enforcement if I don’t have to. You understand, I hope.”

Hank glances at Connor whose LED was already buffering, “Five years for grand theft auto. Released in 2016.” 

Hank returns his focus back onto the man and Walsh rolls his eyes, “I hotwired a car when I was eighteen. Went on a little joyride and got popped doing 110 in a 50 zone. Haven’t had any issues since. I’m sure your calculator can attest to that.”

“As fascinating as that is, we’re actually here about Jason Darrow.”

Walsh tugs his headphones from his ears fully, face serious, “Jay? What about him? He alright?” 

Hank shares a look with Connor before saying, “Unfortunately, no. He was found murdered last night.”  

Hank watches carefully as the words register across Walsh's face. Years of dealing with homicides and Hank had sharpened his intuition to a sharp, unforgiving tool. And what that intuition was telling him was that the mixture of shock and fracturing grief that made itself known on Walsh's face was genuine.

“Emily?” Walsh chokes out, glancing between the two of them.

“They both were murdered last night.” Connor supplies, “Their daughter found them shortly after leaving your residence.”

“Oh god. Oh my god.” He reaches into his coveralls and pulls out his phone. Face draining of color when he sees the long list of messages and missed phone calls, “Dammit. Jesus Christ, this isn't happening.”

“Mr. Walsh. Can we ask you those questions now?” Connor says, almost delicately.

“I- yeah. Lets... my office is this way.”

They follow him across the garage and into a room that would be more accurately described as a broom closet. An out-of-date computer sits on a battered desk in the corner. Connor eyes the monitor and computer tower curiously. Brushes his fingers along the bulky keyboard.

“This model is close to being twenty years old.” Connor comments and the way his eyes widen in fascination reminds Hank of when he was a kid and got to touch a dinosaur fossil at the local museum.

“Jay- Jay wasn't big on technology.” Walsh explains, gesturing across the room and its paper and log books, “He liked things old school. Which is why a lot of the main work we do is restoration and upkeep on old classic cars. Most of this stuff hasn't been updated since his dad owned it. I'm the one that brought in the new tech you see up front and in the yard. We couldn't compete if we couldn't work on the new cars and their onboard systems.”

“The employee at the front stated that androids weren’t allowed on the premises. Was that also Jason Darrow’s policy?”

“Yeah. Well, it was his dad’s long before it was Jay’s. Androids are cheaper but it was more worth it to him--and to Jay--if it meant keeping a couple good kids off the streets.”

“Are all your employees ex-convicts, Mr. Walsh?” Connor asks, “From the few that I’ve seen, I’ve been able to access varied records. Ranging from assault to possession of Red Ice.”

“Yeah, what of it?” Walsh bites back, expression guarded.

“No need to be on the defensive, sir.” Connor says, hands raising in a placating gesture, “We’re just trying to get a lead on possible suspects.”

“None of those boys would have laid a finger on Jay. He was the closest thing most of them had to family. The reason most of those boys aren’t in prison or dead is because Jay made sure they were taken care of.”

Hank hums at that, looking around the office with a casual eye. Photos line the walls of both men’s families, seemingly intertwined as they outline shared holidays and birthdays, “Did he take care of you?”

“Yeah-” Walsh sighs, looking down at his hands, “I was twenty-three when I got out. I had no education, no family. All of my friends were either on the inside, dead or balancing between the two. Look at me-” He gestures to the tattoos that start below his ear and trail down his neck and arms, “You tell me honestly if anyone was going to hire me. Especially after the first wave of androids hit and half the city’s workforce was put on ice.”

Hank remembers that first year after CyberLife released the Chloe model. He had been a rookie; so wet behind the ears that it’s a wonder that he didn’t drown straight out of the academy. He remembers how the receptionists were replaced, when the janitors were phased out and the 911 operators were suddenly gone.

He glances towards Connor who stands with his back straight and his gaze intense on Walsh’s face. His LED--a pale, weak yellow-- is barely hidden under the wisp of his bangs. Hank suddenly wonders when he started parting his hair that way.

“Jay saw me one afternoon casing a gas station because I was _hungry_ and _cold_ and I was living under a bridge and prison starts to sound a whole lot better when you’re freezing. He stopped me, brought me to his dad and convinced him to give me a job. I had never met the guy before. He even made me his partner when his dad retired a couple years later. Jay-” A strangled, dying sound escapes Walsh’s throat and he drops his head into his hand, “He was my brother, man.”

The room fills with his sobs and Hank scratches his beard, awkward in the face of this man’s devastation. 

Connor clears his throat, a completely unnecessary action for him to do, “Were you aware that Jason Darrow was having an affair.”

The man’s head snaps up, tears cutting through the black grime on his cheeks and it’s more telling than any confession, “What? How did-”

“Michelle Darrow informed me that she overheard you and Jason Darrow arguing about it. Three weeks ago.”

Walsh shuts his eyes tightly, “Dammit…”

“Mr. Walsh? If you know something it would beneficial for you to tell us. It may give us a lead on finding the person who killed your friend.”

Walsh looks torn; cut between wanting to protect his friend and wanting to help. It bleeds across his face and if Hank wasn’t certain before that Christopher Walsh had nothing to do with his friend’s murder than he was made certain then, “Come on, Christopher.”

“Jay…” Walsh begins, rubbing at his neck, “Jay was a good father. A good husband, alright? He loved his family, loved Em. He just… had this bad habit.”

“I know my vices. Smoking is a bad habit. Drinking is a bad habit. Gambling, drugs, those are bad habits.” Hank says, “What is sounds like to me was that your friend was knowingly cheating on his wife.”

Walsh’s eyes lower at that,“ I didn’t like it, okay? I told him that it was going to ruin him. But he didn't want to listen to me. He said he was being careful about it. That Emily would never know. That it was only a temporary thing. He always waited until the garage was empty. Hell, I didn’t know about it until I saw her dropping off her car one too many times for it not to be suspicious. I confronted him about it a couple weeks ago. We got into this pretty nasty fight and he’s been avoiding me ever since. Haven’t seen her either, so I assumed he moved his affair offsite.”

“Can you describe this woman?”

“Um… brunette. About 5’5. Brown eyes. Young, much younger. She drove a 2026 Chrysler Horizon. It was a bit of a clunker. Her name started with an A, I think. Alice? Allison? I’m sorry.”

“Is she registered in your system?” 

Walsh shakes his head, “Jay always handled her personally when she came in. Knowing him, I doubt there is any record of her anywhere here.”

“One last question, Mr. Walsh. Did Jason Darrow ever interact with a GS300 model android?” Connor asks, “Default name would have been Erik.”

“No, Jay didn’t like androids. But he’s been weird lately so I don’t know. Maybe.” 

Hank bites back a curse and Connor tilts his head, polite, “Alright. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Walsh. If you remember anything else, please give us a call. I’ve already sent you our contact information to your phone.”

Walsh’s phone beeps and he doesn’t even glance at it.

“Yeah.” He says, “Will do.”

They exit the room and he doesn’t move. The door shuts behind them.

* * *

Hank is lighting up a cigarette, lighter low on fluid causing him to nearly skin his thumb on the wheel when trying to coax a flame from it, when Connor open the door to his car and drops down into the passenger seat.

He reaches over, plucks the cigarette from between Hank’s teeth and flicks it out into the snow before shutting the door, “All of Walsh’s employees admit to having seen the woman but none of them knew her name or any identifying information about her. All of them also have alibis for the time of the murder.” Connor holds out his hand and adds, “Give them over.”

Hank feels his eye twitch. Debates the headache of fighting Connor over his need for a hit of something to ease the jitteriness in his hands and finds that one is more painful than the other and grumpily drops his coveted pack into the android’s waiting palm, “Killjoy.”

Connor slides the pack into his coat pocket, “On average, 480,000 people in the United States die from illnesses related to tobacco use. Perhaps you should take up running, Lieutenant. It would be a much healthier alternative to smoking.”

“I would rather die, actually. Thanks.” Hank says,  shifting the car into drive, ignoring the way Connor’s mouth does a weird thing where it feels like he’s frowning when he’s not.

“Sumo would like it. I think.” Connor murmurs, almost as if he was saying it to himself and it succeeds in making Hank feel like complete and utter shit.

Hank squints out of the windshield, chews on the skin of his cheek for a moment before sighing, “You’re a manipulative fucker, aren’t you?”

Connor doesn’t respond but his mouth twitches and he might as well be grinning from ear to ear.

“Okay.” Hank says, pulling into traffic, “So we have a missing android that apparently doesn’t have any connection with the Darrow family and a mistress that no one can identify.”

“I’m currently analyzing-- _left up here_ \-- the security footage from the garage in hopes of identifying her. But the database is set to delete it’s stores every two weeks according to Mr. Alvarez.”

“ _I know where I’m going._ Try the CCTV cameras from roads around D &W Automotive. One of those must have caught her either coming or going from the garage.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” He pauses, suspended in a way that Hank expects the question long before Connor is able to verbalize it, "May I ask you something?”

“What, Connor?” 

“Why do people commit adultery?”

Hank glances sharply over to his partner, “What?” 

“When talking to Michelle Darrow, she had told me that she had confronted her father about his affair. He had started to cry, had begged her that he would end it as long as she didn’t tell her mother. In all accounts he had a healthy stable marriage. His wife was aesthetically pleasing and of good character. It seems irrational that he would risk his marriage like that.”

Hank scratches at his beard, grunts, “Shit, Connor. I don’t know.”

“But you were married. You must-”

“Shut up, Connor.”

Connor promptly shuts his mouth and Hank takes a second, a moment to beat down the sadness that always flairs when he thinks of her. The same, cavernous sadness that he gets when he thinks of Cole.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant.” Connor says nearly four stop lights later at the exact moment Hank’s fingers loosened their white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, “I realize that the topic of your family is a sensitive subject.”

“You apologize a lot. You know that?” Hank shoots back, kicks himself at how angry it comes out.

Connor blinks, “I’m sorry.”

It’s strange how that is enough to makes him laugh, even if it’s a joyless sound. The light turns green and he coughs. Reaches out to turn the heat up and frowns when the dial is already at the highest setting. Drums his fingers against the steering wheel.

Connor doesn’t move, but Hank can feel his eyes on him anyway.

“Abigail-” Hank starts, the name sharp against his throat, “I loved her. God, I loved her. When we lost Cole, it was like she died on the table with him. We had hard times before that. Stupid things like not communicating or forgetting her birthday or my job keeping me away from home for too late and too long. But Cole… I lost her that day too. I just didn’t know it at the time.”

He’s grateful that he doesn’t need to explain to Connor how he lost her. How he came home that one miserable September night _(it had been Cole’s birthday)_. How he had found soup boiling over on the stove ( _tomato soup, made from scratch. Cole’s favorite)._ How he had numbly walked down the hall to their bedroom _(Cole’s room, door closed. Walk faster)._ How he found her lying down on their bed, beautiful and sad and cold _(He had just refilled her Ambien. He kicks the empty pill bottle and it rolls away)._

He doesn’t have to tell Connor those details. Connor already knows. Connor has always known.

He takes a deep breath, and switches lanes, his voice breaks on the output, “So no. I don’t know why Jason Darrow would cheat on his wife. Seems stupid to me when the man had everything he could have ever wanted.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to post again before the 15th but we all know how that lie goes. Keep hitting that kudos button and keep dropping those comments. I absolutely love everyone's participation in this fic it's absolutely amazing. 
> 
> ALSO FIVE PEOPLE HAVE FOLLOWED MY PLAYLIST ON SPOTIFY!!!!! Some of you have even added- gasp- songs. I'm not going to lie that's what pushed me to finish this chapter today. Ya'll's additions were perfect and spot on and wisahgaiogihoagjo 
> 
> (https://open.spotify.com/user/1237398088/playlist/6Um3PxR4psye9E7a2nJKK9?si=CCw9ryTdTLaZ7FswrV-S9Aa)


	7. CCTV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my pretties. I am dying with the flu right now (first week of the semester, thems the breaks, kids) so shorter chapter this week. We continue on with the intrigue of the Darrow murder! Detective hats on everybody!

Time:

 Tuesday; November;

 23th;

 2038;

 6:45AM((UTC - 4))

[Downloading__CCTV__Footage___File___Size___200GB___]

[Setting_Search___ Parameters____Unknown___Suspect__Woman__Age_20_to_35_Hair_Brown_Height_Approximate__5 foot__5 inches___ 2023___Chrysler__Horizon]

[Parameters___ Unknown___Suspect__Android___Model__GS300____CYBERLIFE___DESIGNATION___ERIK]

[Time_Window: February_1st_November__22th]

[Download_completed]

[Begin__analysis__]

Video_CCTV_Detroit_MI_10182038_South_>>_Parameters:[Unknown_suspect_female...]

[Error_NOT_FOUND]

Video_CCTV_Detroit_MI_10192038_South_>>_Parameters:[Unknown_suspect_female...]

[Error_NOT_FOUND]

Video_CCTV_Detroit_MI_10202038_South_>>_Parameters:[Unknown_suspect_female...]

[Error_NOT_FOUND]

Video_CCTV_Detroit_MI_11012038_South_>>_Parameters:[Unknown_suspect_female...]

[Error_NOT_FOUND]

Video_CCTV_Detroit_MI_11022038_South_>>_Parameters:[Unknown_suspect_female...]

[Error_NOT_FOUND]

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fingers snap, impatient and quick in front of his nose and Connor pushes his analysis program into the background. He blinks, mouth slow and jaw lagging behind his words, “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

Hank is bleary eyed, hair knotted and un-brushed, and has a scowl etched heavily into his face, “What’s up with you? Damn dog’s been whining for nearly twenty minutes. ”

Connor looks around Hank and sees Sumo sitting at the porch door, anxiously swiping at the glass paneling with intermittent whimpers. He rises from the couch immediately to open the door, Sumo nearly knocking him over as he darts into the backyard. Connor stares after him for a shuttered second. Or minute. He can't really recall. 

“Connor!” Hank mutters, “Don’t just stand there! It’s fuckin’ freezing. He’ll bark when he’s ready to come back in.” 

“Sorry, Lieutenant. I wasn’t paying attention.” Connor slides the door shut quickly.

Hank is standing in the threshold of the kitchen, a cup of coffee fresh from the pot in his hand, eyes narrowed, “You strokin’ out on me or what?” 

Connor turns his head, the motion jagged, "I am not human. I am physically incapable of ‘stroking out’.” 

“It’s too goddamn early for the jokes, asshole. You know what I mean.”

Connor reaches up to tug on his necktie, having forgotten that he was wearing a sweatshirt. (When had he changed?)

“I am rendering  the CCTV footage from a five mile radius of the garage from the last six months. It’s a large task, my processors are having...difficulty.”

Hank frowns, “Is that safe for you to be doing?”

“It’s not unsafe.” His head feels heavy, “I’ll return to normal once the program is finished.”

“Okay, you won’t like...melt, will you? You’re putting off a lot of heat there.”

Connor shakes his head and his eyes shut without his consent. He can’t remember if he answered Hank’s question or not.

There is a hand on his shoulder and Hank is pushing him back so that he can open the door. Sumo clatters into the room. Shaking off snow and fur with a huff, “Alright, kid. Go sit back down.”

“I’m fine.” Connor argues, and he suddenly aware that he’s sitting on the couch and Hank is in the kitchen. His olfactory sensors are picking up the thick scent of bacon. He opens his mouth, ready to inform Hank of the dangers of cholesterol and heart failure but the words never make it out.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[ANALYSIS___RENDERING___77%_COMPLETE___BUFFERING_]

[Search___ Parimeters____Unknown___Suspect__Woman__Age_20_to_35_Hair_Brown_Height_Approximate__5 foot__5 inches___ 2023___Chrysler__Horizon]

[Parameters___ Unknown___Suspect__Android___Model__GS300____CYBERLIFE___DESIGNATION___ERIK]

[Time_Window: February_1st_November__22th]

Video_CCTV_Detroit_MI_11032038_South_>>_Parameters:[Unknown_suspect_female...]

[Error_NOT_FOUND]

Video_CCTV_Detroit_MI_11042038_South_>>_Parameters:[Unknown_suspect_female...]

[Error_NOT_FOUND]

Video_CCTV_Detroit_MI_10205038_South_>>_Parameters:[Unknown_suspect_female...]

[Error_NOT_FOUND]

Video_CCTV_Detroit_MI_11062038_South_>>_Parameters:[Unknown_suspect_female...]

[Error_NOT_FOUND]

Video_CCTV_Detroit_MI_11072038_South_>>_Parameters:[Unknown_suspect_female...]

[Error_NOT_FOUND]

[Video_CCTV_Detroit_MI_11072038_South_>>_Parameters:[Unknown_suspect_female...]

**[SUBJECT_RECOGNIZED: 2023___Chrysler__Horizon:_License Plate: YTX23A___X__reference_DMV_DATABASE:]**

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When he opens his eyes again, the room is quiet. Sumo is has moved from his bed to patch of light in front of the window, body sprawled and tongue hanging out.

Mid-afternoon. Time had slid by without notice.

He sits forward, sways slightly with the movement. Processes and recalibrates his balance and motion receptors. Stands up.

Sumo’s head lifts at the sound of his movement, rolls onto his paws and pads over to nose at Connor’s hip. Connor pats him gently on the head.

A quick walk around the house tells him that he’s alone, Hank’s car is missing from the driveway.  Connor steps into the kitchen to find dishes stacked in the sink, sets to washing them as he dials Hank’s cellphone.

Hank answers on the fifth ring with a grouchy: “What?”

“Alexandria Barton.” Connor says, scrubbing at a frying pan, “She’s a pre-med student at the University of Michigan. Student parking records indicate that she drives a 2023 Chrysler Horizon.” He  pauses for a second, and then asks, “Where are you?”

There is the sound of something scratching against the receiver, like Hank is shifting the phone up on his shoulder, “I’m at the M.E.’s office. They just finished the autopsy on the Darrows.” 

“Did it yield anything?”

“Nothing that we didn’t already guess. Coroner places the T.O.D at somewhere around 11p.m. though”

“Fits Michelle Darrow’s statement.”

“Yeah.” There is a jingle of keys in the background, the sound of a car door opening and shutting, “You said this Alex girl is pre-med? How old is she?”

“Twenty-two. Academic records say she’s on track to graduate _summa cum laude_ come the spring.”

Hank whistles low, “Damn. Smart girl. What’s she doing messing around with a guy like Darrow?”

“I’m not sure. Her IP address places her at the campus library within the last thirty minutes. Should we go ask her?”

“You read my mind.”

* * *

Alexandria Barton is skinny, speckled-skinned and nearly drowning in a cable-knit sweater three sizes too big for her. She has her hair braided tightly to her scalp, a pair of large, brightly colored headphones around her neck, and is protruding an aura of seriousness that Hank can feel from twenty feet away.

She is the only student in the room, buried three feet deep in E-books and flashcards.

They approach her and she holds up a hand, stopping Hank from speaking, “I'm busy. Go away.”

“Alexandria Barton?” Hank says, ignoring her.

She sighs, long and loud before book marking her place and lifting her eyes, “I posted on my blog that I’m not tutoring until...January?” She looks between them, mouth hanging open, “Uhh, who're you?”

“Lieutenant Anderson, DPD. This is my partner, Connor.” Hank flashes his ID, “We have a few questions for you.”

The color drains from Alexandria’s face and she curses, “I’m going to kill Jackie. Look, I told her that I wanted nothing to do with her stoner friends. We just live together.” 

“We’re not here about your roommate’s marijuana usage, Miss. Barton.” 

Alexandria blinks, sheepish, “Oh. Then.... please ignore what I just said.” 

Hank rolls his eyes, reaches into his coat and pulls up a photo on his phone of the Darrow family, “Do you know these people?”

Hank watches her carefully. Watches how her eyes roam over the family photo. Is mildly surprised when she nods, “Yeah, I do. What’s this about?”

“How do you know them?”

“I’m a tutor on the side. I was helping Michelle with chemistry. Why, did something happen?” 

“Did you ever use Mr. Darrow’s garage?”

“Well, yeah, all the time. My car is always one mile from blowing up. Mr. Darrow gives me a really good discount in exchange for helping Michelle.”

“And helping him, I assume.” Hank adds.

“Um, excuse me?”

“We’ve been informed by Mr. Darrow’s partner of his affair.” Connor says, “His affair with you.”

Alexandria’s eyes widen, the pen in her hand falling from her grasp, “Oh my god. What? _No.”_

“Are you saying that you weren’t sleeping with him?”

She waves her hands frantically, growing redder by the second, “No! Dude, first off he’s like _forty._ And… honestly I don’t swing that way." She lifts up her backpack to show an array of rainbow-themed buttons darting across the front pocket, "Secondly, my ex-girlfriend broke up with me last semester _because_ I barely have time to breathe right now, I’m so swamped. When would I have had the time to have an affair with a married man. Seriously?”

Hank scratches his chin in thought, "When was the last time you saw Jason Darrow?" 

"A couple of days ago? I stopped by their house on Thursday to help Michelle study and I stayed for dinner. I've been cramming all week, so I haven't seen Michelle or Mr. Darrow since then." 

“Do you know anyone who would want to hurt the Darrows?”

“Hurt? What do you mean hurt? You guys are freaking me out, what is going on?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Darrow were murdered Saturday night."  

“ _Murdered?_ You're kidding, right."

Hank levels her with a serious look, "Where were you Saturday night?"

"Oh my god, you're not kidding. Wait, do you think I had something to do with this? Fuck, don't answer that."

"Miss. Barton, answer the question."

She throws her hands up, manic, "I was in my dorm room, studying. Like I have been every Saturday night for the last three months. You can check the system. Everyone is assigned a key code at the beginning of the semester.” She shakes her head, "Look, this is a lot. Can I please go? I have an essay that I really need to finish before the weekend." 

Hank looks to Connor, who nods, "Her alibi checks out, Lieutenant."

"Alright. We'll be in touch."

“Y-yeah, of course.” She swipes her things into her satchel and scurries off. 

* * *

“Do you believe her?” Connor asks as they descend the steps of the library,

“Do you?”  Hank shoots back, slipping a little on a patch of ice at the foot of the stairs.

“I’m not sure." Connor says, titling his head to the side, "She seemed genuine and campus security validates her alibi. Something isn't adding up." 

“I think she’s not telling us something.” Hank nods, unlocking the doors to his car, “But if what she says is true, who was Jason Darrow having an affair with?”

“I’ll run a background check on her activity." 

“Yeah-- ” His phone buzzes in his hand, Hank unlocks the screen and scans the notification with interest, “Shit. Actually, hold off on that for now.”

“Lieutenant?”

Hank tosses his phone to Connor, drops into the driver's seat and starting the engine, “A report was just filed for a shut-down android found in the Detroit river. I think it’s our missing GS300 model.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be posted first week of September. But school just started so I may be dead.


	8. Cinderblock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my pretties~
> 
> Got a lot of things on my plate right now so thank you for your patience. At those lovely lovely people who have been adding music to my playlist I am blessed by your additions. They really do help with the writing process, surprisingly. 
> 
> Dust off those detective hats, ladies and gents and those that lieth betwix.

Hank nearly eats shit sliding down the incline from the main road, the tread of his boot doing fuckall against the sludge of mud, ice and gravel. He hits the service dock with little grace, skipping a few steps and nearly taking a dive over the ledge into the water.

He’s getting too old for this shit.

“Someone tried to sink it.” Paulie says by way of greeting as Hank approaches the scene under the bridge. Paulie stands over the android and gestures to the cinderblock by his foot, a knotted coil of rope draped across it.

Hank reaches out and digs out the frayed end, twirls the wet strand between his fingers, “Tried being the operative word. Lemme guess-”

Paulie shakes his head, “Serial number filed off.”

“Fuckin’ figures. Divers find anything else?”

“Nothing so far, they’re finishing up one final sweep of the bed now but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“How long was he in the water?!” Connor’s voice calls from above as he slides down the embankment, hitting the pavement next to Hank a second later.

 “Not sure.” Paulie says with a shrug, “A local homeless man was making camp and heard it clunking against the support beam there. Officer Clark was driving through around the same time our friend was trying to fish the damn thing out with his cane. He’s the one who called it in and that was about an hour ago.  I wouldn’t be able to tell you much else without sending it down to the lab for analysis.”

Connor kneels down and trails his hand across the side of the android’s face, “Missing LED light, most likely an underground deviant.”

“Doesn’t give us a lot to go on. Considering most androids were ditching the lights long before the protests started.”

“I'll check in with Markus. If it was a deviant android, maybe someone in Jericho knows something.” Connor says and then touches the smooth uninterrupted surface under the clavicle and frowns,“The access panel is unresponsive. Lieutenant, do you happen to have something with a sharp edge to it?”

“Here, I got a pocket knife.” Paulie says, reaching into his coat pocket and tossing it to Connor, “I’ll leave you both to it. Holler when you’re ready for us to bag it.”

“Careful on the climb,” Hank warns, “Shit’s slippery and you ain’t as spry as you used to be, Dyer.”

Paulie tosses a tactful gesture over his shoulder and starts off down the walkway. He pauses long enough to make sure Hank sees him start to ascend a set of stairs carved into the concrete incline.

“Asshole.” Hank gripes good-naturedly, turning back to the task at hand, stuffing his hands further into his coat pocket where he has a collection of heating-pads housed. Connor isn’t even wearing gloves.

“Thing looks fuckin’ creepy without it’s skin on.” He says, absently.

Connor flicks open the blade and wedges it into the plating, a second of wiggling around and a panel pops off like a bottle cap, falling to the ground with a plastic thud, “Depending on the situation, programming will divert power to maintaining vital function. The programming that cloaks the outer-shell is usually the first to go.”

“I’ve seen you after some pretty fucked up situations, Connor.” Hank waves across the android, across the manufactured white plastic of it's body, “You’ve never looked like that.”

“My systems overall are more advanced. However, if I disabled that particular programming I would look more or less the same as any other Cyberlife model.”

Hank looks down at him, trails his eyes across the stupid boy-scout haircut and the freckles placed across the bridge of Connor’s nose and jaw. The valley of comparison between Connor and this plastic _thing_ is too vast to comprehend.

“Hard to imagine.” He says, partly to Connor and mostly for himself.

Connor tilts his head at Hank’s comment, “I don’t understand the difficulty. Aren’t all humans structured the same under their skin as well?”

“Yeah, but-” Hank starts to say, but the rest of the sentence shrivels up on his tongue.

 _It’s not like this._ _It’s different. We’re different._

Connor looks at him intently, patiently. The defenses crumble under that expectation leaving Hank with nothing.

“Forget about it.” Hank says, uselessly, “It’s not important right now. What do we got?”

Connor uses the edge of the knife to push away some rubber tubing obstructing his view, “The water damage is more severe than I originally thought.”

Hank peers over Connor’s shoulder, finds that he has no idea what he’s looking at, "How bad is it?"

"The entire thoracic system is flooded." Connor digs around in the waterlogged cavern of the android's chest, “After the first generation of androids was produced, Cyberlife received user complaints about models falling into pools or issues with electrical components getting damaged when performing basic chores like washing dishes or bathing children. Improvements on the design and integrity of both armor paneling and waterproofed wiring makes all androids able to withstand up to six feet of tepid water for at least eight hours. Considering water temperature and the level of infiltration, I would estimate that he’s been trapped in the water for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Works with our timeframe,” Hank muses, “Can you tell if it’s our android?”

“The model mold is accurate, but in a shut-down state the only way I can know for sure is by analyzing the thirium.”

Hank grimaces, flapping his hand, “What are you waiting for? We ain’t got all day-"

“The problem however-” Connor continues, prying open a larger panel on the android’s abdomen. There is a sharp crack as it pulls away, “This android has no thirium.”

“Did it bleed out in the water?”

"No, I don't think so," Connor states, “Thirium becomes a gelatinous substance when exposed to freezing temperatures. It expands and clogs the synthetic arteries, blocking circulation and leading to eventual system shutdown. Look here-”

Hank drops into a squat, pushes his hair back to look where Connor is directing him, “If there was any thirium in circulation when this android went into the water, this tank would have at least some evidence of the material coating the inside. There's nothing." 

“Filed-off serial number, removal of any identifiable features, remote location...obviously this was a body dump.” Hank runs his hand through his hair, finds the strands cold and stiff, “This entire thing is starting to piss me off.”

“It certainly is becoming frustrating.” Connor agrees, straightening and dusting off the fabric off his jeans, “I want to ride with Investigator Dyer to the lab.”

“You think there is something salvageable in there?”

Connor stares hard at the body, “If the head remained relatively above the surface during the time he was in the water, there is a possibility that I can still access the android’s memory bank.”

Hank nods, “What are the chances you can get him working long enough to do that?”

Connor doesn’t respond.

"Yeah," Hank says, "I thought as much." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lets say, end of September, early October for the next chapter~ 
> 
> GIVE ME MUSIC!: 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1237398088/playlist/6Um3PxR4psye9E7a2nJKK9?si=CCw9ryTdTLaZ7FswrV-S9Aa


	9. Milkshakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this!? A chapter out...ON TIME? A longer chapter too! It must be Christmas. 
> 
> Thank you everyone who is so patient with me, I'm trying to deliver a story that is both entertaining and heart wrenching and I hope you all are enjoying it as much as I am writing it. 
> 
> Warning: This chapter deals with talks centered around death and the feelings envolved in those talks. Also Hank will be struggling with alcoholism throughout most of this story and that will only get more prevalent from here. Please keep that in mind as I am trying to navigate a complex character with severe issues. I'll do my best to remain as genuine as I can.

Hank walks into the precinct to find Michelle Darrow sitting at his desk later that afternoon.

“She’s been there for an hour or so.” Detective Rollins comments from her desk, looking up from her report, “I told her that it was most likely going to be a while and that she could have left a message with reception but she insisted that she wait.”

“She tell you what she wanted?” Hank asks.

Detective Rollins shakes her head, “No, she just said she wanted to speak to your android.” 

Hank cuts her a sharp look and she quickly adds, “Sorry. She asked for Connor. I- um, do you want me to call someone for her?” 

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, “No, I’ll handle it. Thanks, Katie.” 

“Of course, Lieutenant.” 

Michelle’s head lifts as he slides into his desk chair and she looks visibly disappointed, “Is Connor not with you?” 

Hank leans forward over his knees, “He’s working an angle on your parent’s case. I’m not sure when he’ll be around. What is this about?” 

“Oh.” she says, hands clenching in her lap, “I- nothing. I just wanted to talk to him.”

“About the investigation?” Hank asks, “Michelle, we can’t disclose anything-”

“No. I-” Her eyes drop to the side, “Not about that, I just- I’m sorry. This- this was stupid of me.” 

She stands suddenly, tugging her backpack over her shoulder and moves to leave and Hank catches her by the wrist, turns her slightly back to him and sees the desperation in her eyes. 

“Come on.” He says, standing up and guiding her gently toward the door, “I think I know what you need.” 

* * *

He takes her to Molly’s Diner up the block, ushers her into the booth in the farthest corner and orders them both chocolate milkshakes. That’s as far as he’s planned. 

There is silence, heavy and awkward. Michelle plays with the strands of her bangs and Hank busies himself with messing with the tabletop jukebox, flips through the selection in order to buy enough time to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to say. 

Hank doesn’t comfort people, it isn’t natural for him to do so. Even the token comfort he gives on the job is heavily scripted, drafted to be equal parts sympathetic and professionally distant. 

He settles on a queue of Nina Simone, messes with the volume so that it plays just a hair louder than the rest of the clatter around them. The waitress comes back with their milkshakes, sets them down with a smile and leaves them just as quickly. 

“What did you want to talk to Connor about?” Hank asks finally, looking at her. 

“I don’t know.” Michelle answers, her finger drawing absent-minded shapes in the condensation. She starts with a smiley-face, then destroys it with a swipe of her thumb, “I told you, stuff.” 

“Stuff.” Hank repeats.

She juts her chin out, mouth pulling into an angry line, “Yeah, stuff. Something other than the fact that my fucking parents are dead.” 

She says it sharply, viciously, glaring at him as the words cut from her mouth. Hank knows a test when he sees one. 

“That’s worse part.” Hank says instead, “-isn’t it? Everyone’s sympathy.” 

Her eyes widen a fraction and she hesitates before saying, “Who’d you lose?”

He shrugs, “My family, same as you.”

“How’d it happen?”

“Not easily.”

“I’m sorry,” she says before wincing, “No, God, I’m sorry that’s not what I meant.”  

“I know.” Hank says. 

“No. You- I hate it when people say that to me. Like, there are tens of thousands of words in the English language and all we have to say when bad shit happens is that? That we’re sorry? Is that really the best we got?” 

"Apparently so.” 

“Were you angry? When it happened?” Michelle asks him then, suddenly, “I don’t know what to do with myself. Every person who comes up to me and asks if I’m doing okay I just want to punch them. I want to _hurt_ them. I’m angry and I’m alone and my mom and dad are gone and-” she stumbles on her sentence, voice tight when she continues, “Does it get better? Does any of this get better?” 

Hank thinks of the surgeon's face, swelling dark and bruised, hopped up so high on Red Ice that he couldn’t even defend himself as Hank pummeled him into the pavement. Of his standing game of Russian Roulette with the revolver in his kitchen drawer. Most of all, he thinks of the milkshake in his hands, of this place. He took Abigail here on their first date. He took Cole here every Sunday because he loved the curly fries. It’s enough to bring him to his knees, every time. 

“No.” Hank answers without hesitation, “No, it doesn’t.” 

“Awesome. That’s-” She barks out a short laugh,  “That’s just awesome.” 

The silence is back. Nina croons on softly without regard. 

“Listen.” Hank says in the valley between songs, feeling like the words are just pushing their way out of his mouth without his consent, “People are going to say stupid shit to you. Shit like time heals all wounds or that it's all going to pass eventually, but I guarantee you that these people don’t understand what it’s like to have a wound that just bleeds and bleeds.  There are going to be days where it hurts so bad and where you feel so alone that you ache for something to make you forget. Some days you are going to be so far in the dark you think that you'll never make it back. You are going to have many, _many_ days like that, but guess what?” 

She’s crying freely now, one hand clamped over her mouth as she sobs and Hank lays his own hand over her other. Feels cruel when he says, “You’re alive. You still have to keep living.”

He's a goddamned hypocrite, but she doesn't need to know that.

"I miss them. I want them back.” She chokes out, “I just want it to stop.” 

“I’m sorry,” He says. Because he understands. Because he doesn’t understand. Because people die and they don’t have the kindness to take the pain with them when they go. Because that’s all he can fucking think to say. 

She turns her hand over in his and clutches it tightly, “I’m sorry, too.” 

* * *

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you home?” Hank asks, standing with her at the bus stop just outside the diner. 

“No, it’s fine. I-” Michelle shrugs, “I’m actually supposed to be at a therapy session. I’m going to prolong the lecture for as long as I can. Do some studying at the library maybe.” 

“I don’t blame you.” Hank says, looking at the digital map blinking behind the bench, “There’s your bus.”

They watch as it rounds the corner of the intersection and she stands up from the bench, turning towards him, “Thank you Mr. Anderson for the milkshake.” 

“No problem. I’m sorry, I know I wasn’t the one you were hoping to talk with-” 

“No! No, this was good. It was nice to talk to someone who gets it.” She looks down at her feet, “Everyone has been so careful with me. Connor was the only one who has been able to make me laugh. I guess I was hoping he could do it again. Can you tell him I stopped by?”   


“Yeah, I’ll be sure to let him know.”  

The bus pulls to a stop at the curb and the doors slide open, a voice over the intercom warning passengers to watch their step. Michelle looks at him, surprising him when she ducks under his arm to give him a hug that he’s only able to halfway return before she’s jumping up onto the stairs. He watches her walk down the center lane and take a seat at the very back. Waves until the bus drives off and out of sight.

He walks slow back to the precinct. Feels the cold start to settle in under his collar. The day is edging toward night and it strikes him that Thanksgiving is coming up, having snuck up on him. He wonders how he’s going to spend it this time. The last few years he recalls being spent puking in his toilet after a hard night of drinking.

He approaches the precinct with this sudden urge to get in his car and to head over to Jimmy’s. Two weeks sober is hardly an accomplishment worth protecting.  He could probably get a couple drinks in and sober up long before Connor came around. 

The thought of Connor’s disappointment is enough to beat down the craving and Hank immediately dismisses the thought. But it lingers, ever present at the back of his mind.

He’s about twenty feet off from the entrance when his shoulders tense, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He realizes that Gavin Reed is standing off-center from the door on the patio where a couple of picnic benches have been abandoned since the weather turned cold. He’s shivering like a leaf in a storm, but the dwindling butt of a cigarette keeps him stubbornly rooted against the wall. His mouth curls into a sneer when he spots Hank.

“Evening, Ken!” he says jovially, knocking out another cigarette with a grin, “Where’s Barbie?”

“Do you think you’re funny, Reed?” Hank volleys back, “Cause no one else does.” 

“How’s the case you’re working? I hear Barbie had a visitor.” Reed lights up, takes one long drag and lets the smoke curl out from his nose, “Did you tell that poor girl that an android butchered her parents?” 

Walk away. Don’t let the fucker bait you like this.

“I guess you didn’t, because she wouldn’t be cozying up to  _ Detective Connor  _ if she knew that one of his kind did her mum and dad in. Maybe I should tell her, the public should be alerted when one of them is on a killing spree.”

“Fuck off, Reed.” Hank makes for the door and is blasted by warm air that welcomes him in. 

“Or maybe I should just talk to Barbie myself, I’ve been wanting to have a little chat with him!” 

“Okay.” Hank says, letting go of the door and watching it sway shut. Perhaps it’s the dead calm that fuels his words that has Reed suddenly looking nervous, or maybe it’s the fact that Hank has veered off away from the door and is crowding close into Reed’s space.

Either way, Hank leans into it until Reed is shrinking underneath his gaze.

“Listen here.” Hank says quietly into the bridge of space between them, “Do I have to ask you to play nice?” 

“I’ll do whatever the hell I want, _Lieutenant_.” Reed spits, but it’s weak. A verbal tick that is more a response than a threat. 

“I get that.” Hank comments, stepping even closer, “I really do, but before that, I just want to ask you about something-” 

Reed is fully backed into the wall, face growing paler the lower Hank drops his voice, “Are you afraid to die, Gavin?”

“Get the fuck off of me!” Reed renews his struggle and Hank shoves a forearm into his windpipe, pressing. The other hand goes to the gun holstered at Reed’s waist. There’s a strangled, choking sound and Reed is clawing at his arm, “Now, pay attention, I’m only going to say this once.” 

He removes the gun from Reed’s holster, checks the safety before tossing it into a snowbank beside them. He then pushes a little harder into Reed’s throat, rolling his weight into it, “Leave him alone. Don’t look at him. Don’t speak to him. Don’t interact with him for any reason outside of handing him the fucking stapler if he asks for it. Otherwise, you and I?” Hank gestures between them with a flick of his finger, “You and I are going to have a fucking problem. Do you understand?”  

Reed glares at him with unfocused eyes, complexion starting to take on an uncomfortable hue.  

Hank waits, sets his hand against the wall beside Reed’s ear, taps lightly on the exposed brick.

It takes a staggering second and then Hank feels the slightest of nods against his forearm and he holds for a second longer, just because he can. He lets Reed drop without warning, steps back as the man coughs and curses.

Hank bends down to pick up Reed’s pack of cigarettes, having been dropped and forgotten in the snow, and pockets them with a nod, “Glad we had this talk.” 

He goes inside, ignoring the eyes on his back as he does so.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lets say another October 15th for the next chapter. Maybe. 
> 
>  
> 
> Small Death playlist is on Spotify (@ Erin, Lauren, and Autocooperation, Ya'll are super cool and your music additions are bomb.com)  
> https:// open.spotify.com/user/1237398088/playlist/6Um3PxR4psye9E7a2nJKK9?si=CCw9ryTdTLaZ7FswrV-S9A


	10. Crates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:D

Connecting_systems

[RK800_model_#313 248 317_ **52** _System_OS_Eden3.2*****GS300_model_#120 323 953_ **305** _System_OS_Eden1.2]

**[!WARNING!!_SYSTEM_BRIDGE_UNSTABLE_PROCEED_?_?]**

**[[X]CONFIRM[X]]**

system connectivity pathway 0.1.22……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.24……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.26……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.28……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.30……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.32……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.34……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.36……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.38……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.40……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.42……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.44……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.46……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.48……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.50……..

system connectivity pathway 0.1.52……..

[ **!!ATTN!! STABILITY** _ **FOUND!** ]

[starting_system_cohesion]

[constructing_memory_analysis]

* * *

 

_“Hello, I am a third generation GS300 Cyberlife android. I am fully capable of handling all forms of hard labor and I come installed with all commercial licenses necessary to aid in the loading and transportation of goods and products. My name is Erik.” Connor recites, script burning underneath his tongue. He’s rooted to the floor, hands clasped behind his back. He hasn’t been given permission to move._

_“Is it strong?”_

_“Of course! While the GS300 line was designed specifically for transportation and shipping duties. It is as capable as any labor unit. Look-” There is a hand pressing on his shoulder, tugging his arm out, “Strong fiber cables give it immense strength, more so than any man. It never tires and it never complains.”_

_“I’ll take him. How much?”_

_“All refurbished models start at $5999.99. This model is eligible for a special promotion. 36 month interest free financing after you apply for the Cyberlife rewards card. You won’t get a better deal anywhere else. If you follow me this way we can discuss the necessary registration and paperwork.”_

_“How about I give you $10,000 and we skip the paperwork.”_

_“Sir?”_

_There is a stack of bills being passed between hands and Connor feels something inside of him tighten. Fear._

* * *

_He’s shoved into the trunk of a car and his heart rackets in his chest as he stares up into the face of his user. Feels no warmth from the man’s gaze._

 _The trunk shuts over him and it’s dark, his LED blinks softly against the roof. Yellow. Yellow Yellow._ ****  
** **

_His user had ordered him to disable his GPS imaging software. Without it, he’s stuck with only the variance of speed and the number of turns to orient himself. They drive for a long time._

_Eventually, the car slows to a stop. Gravel crunches underneath him. Footsteps and the trunk opens abruptly and his optics are flooded with unforgiving sunlight._

_“Get out.”_

_He’s outside a large warehouse. There is no designation. Gulls whine overhead and distantly he can hear the slow crash of water against the docks._

_Connor tries to narrow down the location, but all he can get is that they’re still in Detroit._

_His user pushes him forward, barks at him to walk._

_The inside of the warehouse is full of people, Connor sees open crates in the process of being packed. Red._

_“Erik.” His user says, and never has a name felt more like a threat, “Forget everything that you see.”_

_“Yes [NAME_REDACTED].” And he does._

* * *

**[WARNING!! MEMORY CORRUPTION DETECTED!!]**

[memory_file_#12135346747=>> #121353600988 **UNVIEWABLE** ]

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

* * *

_With the majority of his analytics disabled time passes unmarked, but sometimes he gets a glimpse of clarity._

_There are others like him. Androids. He can’t remember what they look like but they all catch his gaze in the same bleak fog._

_There is one that works across from him, tallying the amount of [ITEM_REDACTED] that Connor places inside the crate. It’s the first face he always see when the fog clears. Connor can almost recall his features._

_The moment he starts to think too hard about it he’s forced back down and his mind returns to--_

* * *

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

**[WARNING!! MEMORY CORRUPTION DETECTED!!]**

[memory_file_#1215000012=>> #121500432 **UNVIEWABLE** ]

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

* * *

_The fog clears and there is a weariness that he finally notices in his limbs. The android across from his is staring, mouth slated downwards._

_“Hey,” The android says, “You with me?”_

_The first question is time._

_The android tilts his head, “I don’t know.” He looks down at the ledger under his hands. Paper copy. Untraceable. “This dates back nine months. I think I’ve been here longer than that though.”_

_The second question is location._

_“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Says the android._

_Third question. Who are you?_

_“Ian.” Says the android, smiling like he’s found something he lost long ago, “My name is Ia-_

* * *

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

**[WARNING!! MEMORY CORRUPTION DETECTED!!]**

[memory_file_#121689804548=>> #121700097073557 **UNVIEWABLE** ]

* * *

_Ian isn’t there when he wakes again. Connor blinks several time. Tilts his head side to side, the name catching on his lips._

_“You fuckin’ piece of shit!” There is a clatter. Several sounds of hard impact. Connor finally finds Ian on the floor, underneath the boot of a man that he doesn’t recognize but feel he might. The man kicks hard into Ian who curls away._

_They don’t make sounds. They don’t feel pain._

_Ian looks at him, thirium dripping from his temple. Fear._

_Connor opens his mouth-_

* * *

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

**[WARNING!! MEMORY CORRUPTION DETECTED!!]**

[memory_file_#1215000012=>> #121500432 **UNVIEWABLE** ]

* * *

_“Why was he hitting you?” Fourth question._

_Ian looks at him. Pity, “I don’t know. He hits all of us, Erik.”_

_“How do you know my name?” Fifth question._

_Sadness. “You told me it.”_

_Oh. Sixth. “When did I do that?”_

_“I don’t know.” Ian says, staring hard at the ledger, nearly halfway filled, “A long time ago, maybe.”_

* * *

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

**[WARNING!! MEMORY CORRUPTION DETECTED!!]**

[memory_file_#12123472572457=>> #1212347237 **UNVIEWABLE** ]

* * *

_Ian is in front of him, but he doesn’t say a word. His hand writes mechanically across the page. He’s missing fingers. The fog hovers heavy around him. Connor is alone with his awareness._

_“Fuckin’ android made another mistake. That’s the third one this month.” A voice carries from behind Connor. Angry._

_Danger._

_“Time to replace it, boss. I can talk to my guy and see if there is any updated models we can get on the cheap.”_

_“Look into it. I’ want the fuckin' thing recycled tonight. Can't deal with this shit.”_

_Ian doesn’t look at him. He’s alone with his fear._

* * *

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

_Lift crate. Lower crate. Lift crate. Lower crate. Unload [ITEM_REDACTED]. Reload [ITEM_REDACTED]_

**[WARNING!! MEMORY CORRUPTION DETECTED!!]**

[memory_file_#121689804548=>> #121700097073557 **UNVIEWABLE** ]

* * *

_He opens his eyes to find an android who is not Ian in front of him. Confusion takes over. Connor scans the area. It’s dark. Empty save for the androids who work tirelessly without pause._

_Then he hears it._

_“Please! No! I can keep working! I’m fine! I can keep working!”_

_Ian. Begging. Androids don’t beg. Don’t beg for a life they can’t live._

_“Ed, shut this thing up!”_

_“I can’t! He’s ignoring all of my order inputs. Stay still dammit! ”_

_“Please! Stop! Erik, help! Help me!!”_ ****  
** **

_Connor blinks and he’s in a different room. If he struggles to remember he can see blue burning into red. Two men stand over Ian, tubes are dragging blue from within him. Ian thrashes about. There are tears on his cheeks and his LED is red. Red. Blue. Red. Blue._ ****  
** **

_He tackles the first man to the ground, throws his entire body weight into a punch that craters the man’s jaw. There are arms coming around his neck, pulling, wrenching backwards. He throws himself back into the second man’s chest, knocks them both into the wall and he feels breath on his ear as the man grunts from the impact._

_He rotates in the man’s loosened grip and feels his entire frame freeze. User. User is in danger. Can’t endanger user. User kicks his legs out from under him and Connor hits the ground hard. User puts a knee to his chest. Connor can’t harm user._

_Connor sees Ian writhing in his peripheral. Blue is spilling from a dislodged tube. Blue is filling Ian’s mouth. Ian-_

_Ian must live._ ****  
** **

_Connor reaches out, fumbling for purchase. His hand meets metal. Long. Hard. Crowbar._ _  
_

_He rams it into the side of his user’s face. There is a sickening crack and the man falls off of him with a grunt. Connor is immediately on top of him._

_Lift. Lower. Lift. Lower. Lift. Lower. Red. Red. Red._ ****  
** **

_There are hands on his face. His name is being called._ ****  
** **

_“Stop, Erik.” Ian is saying. Blue is caked across his chin and his LED bleeps. Connor drops the crowbar and coils his arms around Ian. Pulls tight._ ****  
** **

* * *

**[WARNING!! MEMORY CORRUPTION DETECTED!!]**

[memory_file_#1218239823460=>> #121839462036020 **UNVIEWABLE** ] ****  
** **

* * *

_Gunfire. Smoke and snow. He pulls you close. Kisses you as bullets fly overhead._  

_“When this is over.” He whispers, “We’re free.” He smiles like he hasn't quite figured out how the mechanisms work. A little scared, a little wrong. Connor thinks of the first time he saw Ian smile back at the warehouse and he knows he’s alive._

_How could he not be when that smile has always been for him?_ ****  
** **

* * *

_#[[#]]#[#[]]1[2]4)[[! **ERROR!!]]!!MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED !!![[ERROR!]]MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED!!MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED** *rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA) _ _9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA) **ERROR!!]]!!MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED !!![[ERROR!]]MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED!!MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED** *9rA#9*rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9*rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(- **ERROR!!]]!!MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED !!![[ERROR!]]MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED!!MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED** *rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9*rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9rA(9(-rA)9rA#9 _ ****ERROR!!]]!!MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED !!![[ERROR!]]MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED!!MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED** ***

* * *

_Blood. Warm. Dripping down his knuckles. He does not recognize this place. Ian?_ ****  
****

  _No. Stop. The blade comes down swift and sure. Lift. Lower. Lift. Lower. Again and again and again. Blood in his mouth. She doesn’t get to scream. No noise._

_No noise._

_He can’t stop. Why can’t he stop?_

_First question. Second question. Questions. Too many to answer._

_His hands aren’t his. Where is he. Ian. Stop. Stop. Sto*S#^***_

* * *

**_[!WARNING!!_ ** **_UNKNOWN DATABASE! DISCONNECT IMMEDIATELY!!!!]_ **

___: >>>> **A**_ **_CCESS_GRANTED <<<<<<<:___ ** **_DOWNLOADING....._**

03151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.[[ **C]]** 191201210708200518031513[[ **O]]** 05.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.[[ **M]]** 2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.[[ **E]]** 0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.[[ **T]]** 2015.191201210708200[[ **O]]** 51803151305.2015.1[[ **M]]** 325.0612150311.13251908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.[[ **Y]]** 19120121070820051803151305.2015. [[ **F]]** 1325.0612150311.13251908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.13251908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.132519080[[ **L]]** 50516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.[[ **O]]** 2015.1325.0612150311.[[ **C]]** 13251908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.13251908050516.[[ **K]]** 2015.1912012107082005180[[ **M]]** 3151305.2015.1325.0612150311.13251908050516.2015.[[ **Y]]** 19120121070820051803151305.2015.[[ **S]]** 1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.[[ **H]]** 2015.19120121070820051803151305.[[ **E]]** 2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.[[ **E]]** 19120121070820051803151305.[[ **P]]** 2015.1325.0612150311.[[ **F]]** 1325 1908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.[[ **O]]** 2015.191201210[[ **R]]** 70820051[[ **S]]** 803151305.[[ **L]]** 2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.[[ **A]]** 2015.1912012107082005[[ **U]]** 1803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.[[ **G]]** 1325 1908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.[[ **H]]** 1912012107082005[[ **T]]** 1803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.[[ **E]]** 1325 1908050516.2015.19120121070820051803151305.2015.1325.0612150311.1325 1908050516.2015.[[ **R]]** 191201210708200518 ****  
** **

**[[ISN’T IT UNFAIR?]]** ****  
** **

* * *

Connor throws himself back, Erik’s hand is wrapped tightly around his wrist. The remnants of the connection crawling across his skin like writhing insects. ****  
****

 Erik’s face is shifting; one second the same manufactured white of all androids, the next the face Connor knows almost as intimately as his own. The jaw unhinges, “I didn’t mean to.” He moans without the use of his lips, and Connor realizes a fraction too late that the words are coming out of his own mouth, “I didn’t mean to. I...didn’... mean...t…..”  ****  
****

 His voice dies out. Connor’s temple pulsates black as the grip around his wrist slackens and Erik’s hand falls to the counter with a dull, dead sound. 

Connor blinks. Stumbles backwards. Tries to steady himself on a chair. Everything swims. Tilts like the world has dislodged from its axis.  ****  
** **

He hits the ground, head slamming into the tile with jarring force. The sensation burns.  ****  
** **

The warning flashes bright in his optics.

* * *

**[SYSTEM_RESTART]**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter is early this week whhhhaaaaaaa? Hopefully I'll be able to update again soon. 
> 
> Small Death Playlist===> https:// open.spotify.com/user/1237398088/playlist/6Um3PxR4psye9E7a2nJKK9?si=CCw9ryTdTLaZ7FswrV-S9A


	11. Rubber Tubing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllllllo my pretties! 
> 
> I'm back with a bit of a longer chapter today. I'm in the middle of the final push for the semester so updates will be on the slow side. I hope this is still keeping everyone on their toes! @All the lovely, wonderful comments, thank you so much it really makes me happy that everyone is enjoying the mystery <3

  _“System check. State your name.”_

_“Hello, my name is Connor.”_

_“Okay, order recognition looks good. Connor, can you tell me what day it is?”_

_“Today is Thursday, March 4th, 2038. The weather is 47°F with scattered showers.”_

 T _he technician is sweating; beads of moisture that carve a path from temple to chin before being wiped away frantically with the edge of his sleeve. He is nervous, Connor thinks, watching as the man types out his responses. There is a woman standing over the technician’s shoulder, and her gaze doesn’t ever waver from him._

  _“You see, Ma’am?” The technician points at the screen, smiling thin-lipped, “The prototype is responding perfectly well within the established parameters. I really think last week’s readings must have been a blip.”_

  _She holds up her hand and the man’s jaw snaps shut, eyes falling back down to the screen. A drop of sweat escapes from his chin and Connor watches its journey to the floor._

  _The woman moves like a viper, a stride that is memorizing in its grace. She slithers to stand in front of him. He must tilt his chin to look down at her; he’s nearly a head taller than her, and that alone feels like a transgression._

_“State your purpose.”_

_“I am a prototype of an RK800 android. The main function of my design is to aid in the search and seizure of deviant Cyberlife androids.”_

_She purses her lips, “Is that all?”_

_The question confuses him. He digs deep for scripts. He has stated his objective. Maybe the user requires more details?_

  _“I am designed to be able to integrate into any social scenario. I can perform interrogations, questioning, and other related dialogues. I am outfitted with the latest crime scene analysis tools to provide greater cohesion for local law enforcement. My mission is to end deviancy.”_

_“Will you be able to accomplish your task, I wonder.” She says, stepping closer, “You do know that if you fail, you will be decommissioned. You will be taken apart and each piece of you will be inspected for faults. Then you will be recycled or destroyed. I’ve been told that many of the deviants have found this process to be... deeply uncomfortable. Are you afraid to fail, Connor?”_

_He tilts his head, “Fear is a human emotion. I am not human. Therefore, I cannot feel fear.”_

_It is the correct answer. She nods as if pleased, “No. That’s right. You do not.”_

_She leans against his ear and he feels her hand push into his palm. The mechanical heart pumps hard in his chest as she takes the coin hidden between his fingers, holding it up like a secret, “Androids don’t need personal objects, Connor.”_

_“No.” He agrees, resisting the urge to curl his fingers at the loss, “They do not.”_

_She inspects it, twists it under the fluorescent light._

_“You are the most advanced model Cyberlife has ever created.” She says, and there is a point to her words, sharp as fangs would be to the skin, “As such, I’m sure we can make many...exceptions for you.” She slots the coin back into his hand and she grips hard to his wrist, “Just as long as you remain useful.”_

_He pulls the coin away from her, protects it behind his back. It feels cool to the touch, “Yes, Amanda.”_  

* * *

He wrenches his eyes open and is faced with unrelenting white. Sensations flood in, unforgiving and cutting with their clarity. Carpet, scratchy against his cheek. Bed post. A pair of forgotten slippers and dust bunnies that tickle his nose.

 It takes a dragging minute for his limbs to begin to respond. His fingers claw into the floor, scratching for purchase. His arms are lead weights, shackled down to his sides. He pushes through it, manages to force himself to his feet only to stagger, back hitting hard against a wall. Something clatters to the floor in his peripheral. A picture frame?

 He looks up, eyes cataloging the scene faster than he can comprehend. The wall in the Darrow’s bedroom. Deep groves gouged into the surface. 109 more markings then what was documented before. Paint chips in the crevice of his nails. A current that twitches his fingers, seeking familiar curves.

Connor feels his heart beat an irregular pattern. The memory of entering the property is vague. Impressions, like buildings through early morning fog. The crunch of gravel and snow underneath his boot, a turn of a doorknob, the distant sound of nails on plaster. Nothing concrete that he can dissect for answers.

 What had he been doing?

 He catches his gaze in the mirrored door of the bedroom closet, turns more fully to observe his reflection. Mud, clay and grit is caked across his jeans and boots. His dress shirt is filthy, torn at the shoulder and he tugs at it curiously. The fabric moves and the faint glow of thirium shines through. A gash three inches in length, a nicked bit of tubing that’s still bleeding, welling up from under his shirt sleeve with each heartbeat.

 He has no memory of this. His systems have no record of him being injured.

 He watches as his LED begins to flash yellow, casting an alarmed flicker across the room. Hank’s number pulls up across his IUD.

 He answers, voice calm despite the circumstances, focus still on his injured arm, “Hello, Lieutenant.”

 There is an astonished pause, one that waivers so long that Connor has to check the connection of the call and then, “ _You fuckin’ asshole! I’ve been tearing this goddamn city apart trying to track you down and now you finally decide to answer?!”_

_The first question is time._

“How long have you been looking for me?” Connor says, feeling unsettled.

“ _How long- are you kidding me? I’m going to kill you. I’m actually honest to god going to kill you.”_

“Hank-” Connor interrupts, and his voice hitches, anxious. He scratches at his pockets, looking for his coin. When did he last have it?

 Silence, and Connor hears Sumo bark in the background.

 "How long?” Connor asks again.

 " _Three days._ ” Hank says finally, “ _Jesus Christ- you’ve been missing for almost three days.”_

 His coin jumps from his pocket, rolls across the floor and under the bed. He can’t move. That missing, fractured piece hammering in his head.

  _“Where are you?”_ Hank asks gruffly, “ _I’m coming to get you.”_

* * *

Connor sits outside on the porch, watching snow fall in the dark. He updates his systems as he waits, looking for answers in the mess of his head. His shoulder throbs, a strange sensation that tugs at his focus every so often.

The street is dark, dotted by the occasional streetlight. His time and location protocols were disabled three days prior and it takes him a while to sort them out. Without them he can only rely on what his outlying senses are telling him; that it’s snowing and nighttime and cold. It leaves him aimless, disconnected.

Alone.

The flash of headlights draws his attention and Connor stands, walking down the porch steps as the car slams into a stop at the driveway, Hank throwing it in park before jumping out into the cold.

 Connor barely gets out a greeting before Hank is wrenching him forward by the collar of his shirt, the force of it worsening the tear at the seam. The only thing that stops Connor from flinching away is the blatant worry that is cemented in Hank’s face.

The hands move up from his shirt to the back of neck and they turn searching. Roughly tilting his head into awkward angles and Connor realizes that he’s looking for unseen damage. There is exhaustion etched into the groves of his expression and he’s wearing a winter coat thrown over his sleep clothes. The thin fabric of his pants rucked over his boots.

 The hands are ice cold against Connor’s neck.

 “I’m alright, Lieutenant.”

 “Mother-fucker.” Hank says in response, pushing his head away and grabbing him by the shoulder, hissing when his hand encounters Connor’s wound, “Are you bleeding? What the hell happened?”

“I am unsure.” Connor states, not sure whether to lean into Hank’s grasp or to step away, “I can’t remember.”

 “What?” Hank asks, stunned, “Remember anything? At all?” Connor nods, a quick dip of his chin and Hank’s features darken, deathly under the drowning headlights, “Connor, what is the last thing you remember?”

 “I-” Connor narrows his eyes, “I remember the docks. We found the GS300 android.”

 “They pulled it up from the river. You went with it to the lab. Right?”

 “I-”

 “Right?! Connor, think! I need you to fucking think!” Hank shakes him and Connor shoves back in response, “I don’t know!”

 “Shit.” Hank breathes out, “ _Shit!”_

 “Why is this a problem, Lieutenant?”

 “It’s a problem because it’s gone!” Hank bites back.

 “What?”

 “The android, Connor. You’ve stolen the damned android.”

* * *

 

Attempting_Access_Memory_Drive

 

[Input_Dates_:11/24/2038=>11/27/2038]

[Order_Parameters_Location_Objective_Reason]

[Subset_GS300_model_#120 323 953_ **305** _System_OS_Eden1.2]

 

 **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** ……………………. **Memory_Start** _0400…. **Error** _Memory_Not_Detected_ **Rerouting** …………………….

 **Rerouting** …………! **Error!**

 **Rerouting** ………! **Error!**

 **Rerouting** …….! **Error!**

 **Rerouting** ….! **Error!**

**Output_Failed...**

**Unable_To_Access_Selected_Parameters: TRY_AGAIN. . . ?**

* * *

“Are you really telling me you don’t remember?” Hank says, tapping the screen in Connor’s hands, “Because video doesn’t lie and from what it’s showing me, that’s you breaking into the DPD crime lab in the middle of the night and stealing evidence from lockup.”

Connor’s hands tighten their grip on the tablet as he shakes his head, “I have no recollection of this.”

“It’s seems oddly convenient for you to lose that much memory.”

 Connor’s eyes dart up and he frowns, “Are you questioning me, Lieutenant?”

 “I’m trying to make sense of this shitshow.” Hank roars, snatching the tablet from Connor’s hands and holding it aloft as the CCTV footage plays on repeat, “I’ve got you on video tampering with evidence in an open homicide investigation and I need you to realize that this looks really bad!”

 “When I say I don’t remember,” Connor says, patient, like he’s explaining something to a child, “I mean that I’ve been attempting to access my databases for information and it just keeps looping back in on itself. There _is nothing_.”

 “Paulie is the only one who knows about this. I convinced him to give me a couple of days to find you and figure out what the fuck you were thinking. Now you’re telling me that you don’t have any clue where you’ve been or what you were doing? What do you think Fowler is just going to let you out of this with a slap on your wrist?!” He throws the device onto the coffee table in frustration. It flies off the opposite edge and hits the floorboards with a violent clatter. Sumo lifts his head from the dog bed in the corner at the noise and whines.

 Connor attempts to move to pick up the tablet. Hank pushes him back down, turning on his heel to pace across the front of the couch, shoving both hands in his hair and ripping hard at the roots. They’re fucked. They’re absolutely, 100% truly fucked.

 “I’ll try harder.” Connor says after a moment, barely loud enough for Hank to hear. Connor brings a hand up to clamp around his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is dyed blue as thirium slowly leaks out from between his fingers. Hank notices miserably that Connor has leveraged his arm over his knee so that he avoids staining the upholstery of Hank’s couch.   

 Well shit, now he feels like an ass.

 Hank takes a deep breath.  He’s exhausted and hungry and the worry that had been hounding him ever since Paulie called him three days ago asking what the hell his android was doing taking evidence without approval is hitting him all at once.

Connor is staring at the table, fingers twitching like he’s fighting the urge to clean up Hank’s mess. Hank bends down and picks up the tablet, setting it on the table with a sigh.

“Okay.” He says, gesturing tiredly at Connor who looks up with wide eyes, “Come on, let’s see if there is anything in the garage that can patch you up. Christ, I should have taken care of that first.”

 “I’m fine-” Connor says, shifting away, “Let me watch the video again. I should access CCTV footage from around the area to-”

 “Like hell you are. Not while you’re fuckin’ bleeding all over my furniture.” Hank responds, wrapping a hand around the back of Connor’s neck and pulling him up by the scruff of his shirt, “ _Up._ Let’s go. I know shit-all about androids so you’re going to have to tell me what to do.”

* * *

“This is a mess.” Hank gripes, sitting on the workbench in the garage, a ratty towel in one hand.

“The thirium started to coagulate around the wound. I must have been outside in the cold for an extended period.” Connor says, removing the rest of his shirt, “It’s a superficial wound, however. I just need to replace the damaged component.”

“Okay, what do you need me to do?” Hank asks.

Connor tilts his head, inspecting the wound, LED swirling in thought, “I need some rubber tubing, an inch in diameter and four inches in length. Something sharp as well to cut out the damaged part. I believe you keep those materials for the car in the third drawer on the right.”

He does, in fact, have rubber tubing in the third drawer on the right. Hank doesn’t even waste his breath to ask how Connor knows that. He retrieves it and then grabs a pair industrial scissors from the tool wall.

“This is silicone, does it matter?” Hank says, setting the tubing to the side.

“It is not ideal, but it will do for now. First, I need help cleaning around the space, I’m going to disable thirium circulation to the area of my shoulder and arm. Doing so will render my arm immobile. I’m going to remove this for now-” and Hank watches in horror as Connor unclips his entire forearm. Disconnected, the limb turns white and lifeless. Connor sets it down on the workbench by his thigh and glances upwards expectantly at Hank

“I’m going to puke.” Hank says, feeling that he really might.

“Please don’t.” Connor responds, raising an eyebrow.

“No promises,” Hank taps the skin of Connor’s shoulder, right over the gash, “How do I get under this?”

“There’s a plate access point right beside the clavicle, you can use a screwdriver to get under it.”

Hank opens the panel and begins to mop away the gobs of thirium that has collected beneath, going as far as to wipe the underside of the access hatch itself. It smells faintly mechanical. Like diluted oil.

A thought comes to Hank suddenly as he’s wiping away the last bit of gunk. The absurdity of it makes him laugh.

“Penny for your thoughts, Lieutenant?” Connor says wryly when Hank’s laughter grows loud enough to be noticeable.

“I don’t know if my thoughts are even worth that much, kid.” He wipes the area of Connor’s bicep and throws the towel over his shoulder. Turns away so he doesn’t have to look at Connor’s expression, “I used to spend a lot of time in here. Y’know, with Cole.”

Connor doesn’t say anything, but he shifts in Hank’s peripheral, turning so that he faces Hank full on. Head tilted in invitation for Hank to continue.

Hank busies his hands with cutting down some rubber tubing, a memory warm and uninvited causing him to smile, “He was a smart kid. Smarter than me, I reckon. You would have liked that about him. He was always asking questions. He wanted to know everything. Take things apart just to get at the innards and figure out how the world worked. I’d let him hang out in here after work sometimes and let him mess around with the car and we’d just get lost in it, y’know? Getting grease all over our clothes and having a blast. Then Abigail would… would come in and-”

His eyes are burning. Block it out. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.

“Am I-” Connor begins, looking slightly offended, “Am I being compared to a _car_ right now, Lieutenant?”

Hank snorts, wet and broken. Uses the collar of his shirt to dry his eyes. He wonders if Connor realizes what he’s doing, giving a sad old fuck like him a chance to lick his wounds in private.

“Of course not,” Hank sniffs, “That would be an insult to ol’ Bessie.”

Connor frowns, “Cars don’t need names. Why do humans always name their transportation vehicles?”

“You have a name, don’t you?”

“ _I’m not a car!”_

Hank grins, reaching up to cut out the damaged tubing with two shaky snips on each end. Connor watches him, looks him in the eye when he says gently, “I would have liked to meet your family, Hank.”

Hank focuses on the row of wrenches hanging on the pin board hanging behind Connor’s head so that he doesn’t think. Doesn’t remember everything he’s tried to forget. If he starts down that path; the one where he can easily imagine how enamored his son would have been with Connor, how charmed Abigail would have been, how complete and happy and _alive_ they all would be. Hank is sure he would chase those thoughts into the grave.

“Let’s finished getting you fixed up, kid.” He says instead, “Then let's figure out what happened to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we are! I'm excited to see what everyone thinks of the chapter so please let me know in the comments below. I should post hopefully by the end of November. 
> 
> Spotify Playlist (It's Collaborative!) ----> https://open.spotify.com/user/1237398088/playlist/6Um3PxR4psye9E7a2nJKK9?si=vQ1ZXwwQRTq9OC4KnaWPFg
> 
> @ the commenter who said the link was broken, please try this! 
> 
> Beta'd by the great Kreeston.


	12. Dress Shirts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the delay its been a crazy couple months haha. This chapter was originally a lot longer but the flow didn't sound right during my first and second draft of it. So I cut it. The next portion should be posted sometime next week! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your patience.

_ “Dad?" _

_ Awareness comes to him in cresting waves. He feels the fabric of the pillow against his temple, the blue-purple haze of night cloaking the space beyond his eyelids. An arm curls across his hip, fingers burrowed under the hem of his sleep shirt. Abigail. Her shift at the hospital must have ended early.  _

_ “Dad.” There it is again, soft and hesitant. A tug at his shoulder.  _

_ He blinks, groggy. Shifts up onto his elbow to rub at the corners of his eyes, “What’s wrong?”  _

_ “I had a bad dream again.”  _

_ Cole shifts on his feet, clutches tight to the stuffed rabbit that he always sleeps with. The room suddenly smells of stale urine.  _

_ “Oh. That’s okay, you’re alright,” Hank sighs, “Why don’t you go to the bathroom and wait for me there? We don’t want to wake mom.”  _

_ Cole nods, a sharp dig of his chin into the head of his rabbit and exits the room with an uncomfortable waddle.  _

_ “Another?” Abigail whispers in the dark, and Hank runs a hand fondly across her side, “Yeah, I got it.”  _

_ “Extra sheets are in the-” _

_ “-the linen closet. Go to sleep.”  _

_ “Don’t tell me what to do.” She grumbles and he smiles, drops a kiss on her greasy hair, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”  _

_ She shoves at him, curls under the covers with a huff and begins snoring immediately.  _

_ He stumbles out of the bedroom, stiff and tired. The bathroom light acts as a beacon in the dark hallway.  _

_ Cole stands in the middle of the bathroom, looking more miserable in the light. Hank leans over the tub and draws a bath. The sound of water crashing into the empty basin is bombastic and Cole flinches in his peripheral.  _

_ “C’mere, Cole.” Hank says, reaching over to help Cole remove his pajamas. He tosses the damp bottoms into the laundry basket. He tests the temperature of the water with a wave of his hand. _

_ “Can you wash up while I go change your sheets?”  _

_ Cole nods, solemn as the grave. Hank leaves him, making sure to prop the bathroom door open so that he’ll be able to hear if Cole needs him.  _

_ The smell of urine is stronger in Cole’s room. Hank walks over to the bed and feels about the sheet, frowning when he finds the spot cold and drying. He strips the sheets with practice tugs, rolls it up under his arm and heads back down the hallway to the garage. He cranks the washer, tosses the sheets in with a liberal amount of detergent and heads back to Cole’s room, stopping off to grab a new set of bedsheets from the linen closet.  _

_ He makes Cole’s bed in under five minutes, plumps the pillow and grabs a new set of pajamas from the dresser. Cole is standing in the tub when he enters the bathroom again, a towel tugged around his shoulders and the edge of it soaking up bath water from where it trailed off Cole’s frame.  _

_ “Cole.” Hank grouses, reaching over to pull him out of the tub, “Watch what you’re doing, buddy. You’re getting water everywhere.”  _

_ “I’m sorry.” Cole mutters as Hank pulls a new towel from the rack, “Didn’t mean too.”  _

_ “I know, buddy.” Hank says gently, “Let’s get you into your pajamas.”  _

_ Cole slithers into his clothes in silence and Hank can feel the embarrassment in the stiff quiver of Cole’s upper lip. Sees it in the way he shuffles slowly back to his room, his rabbit clutched hard against his chest.  _

_ “Was it another nightmare?” Hank finally asks, pulling the comforter up and tucking Cole into clean sheets. _

_ Cole nods.  _

_ “Do you want to tell me what it was about?” _

_ He shakes his head.  _

_ “That’s alright. Can you tell me why didn’t you come get me earlier?”  _ _   
_

_ Cole doesn’t answer, curls tighter against his rabbit. _

_ “Cole?” _

_ He mumbles something in his blankets and Hank reaches out to pull the covers away from his mouth, “What?”  _

_ “I didn’t want to be scared.”  _

_ He says it so seriously that Hank can’t help but chuckle, “Oh Cole.” _

_ “I didn’t!” Cole cries, and there are the tears, springing out of his eyes unbidden. Hank runs a hand across Cole’s mop of brown hair, still damp from the tub, “I’m sorry I laughed. Being scared isn’t fun. However, you should come to me or mom when you’re afraid. We’ll always protect you.”  _ _ Cole seems to chew on this for a moment, shifting so he’s looking up at Hank, “But what if you can’t?” _

_ “Huh?” Hank responds, confused. _

_ Cole stares at him, with a sudden hardness to his gaze, “What if you can’t protect me, dad?”  _

_ The fracture begins here. Cole’s room falls way, pieces like chipping paint peeling back to a blank canvas beneath. With each dissolvement there is the scratching, crunching sound of metal against pavement. Metal against metal. The smell of burning gasoline is so stark against his nose that Hank starts to cough, eyes burning as he stumbles from the bed.  _

_ Except, it isn’t a bed. It’s his car, upside down on the frozen highway bridge. Disoriented, he drags himself over shattered glass and debris from the driver’s seat. The cacophony of sirens, of screaming, surrounds him.  _

_ Cole is staring at him from the back seat. Body suspended, blood running down his face. His arms, bent at unnatural angles.  _

_ “What are you afraid of?” Cole says, hiccupping around his collapsed lung.  _

_ Reality seeps in. As it always does. _

* * *

Hank opens his eyes with a numb little cry. Heart beating hard in his chest. 

“Fuck.” He says brokenly to the living room ceiling. 

The ceiling has nothing to say in response. Typical. 

His phone, buzzing underneath his hip, can’t seem to shut up however. 

“Shit. Goddamnit.” Hank lifts his thigh just high enough to wedge his hand under his ass, drags his cellphone out with a grunt. 

The caller ID reads Fowler and Hank hits the silence button. Watches the call ring and ring with mild panic. He tosses it onto the table, hears it buzz with a message notification. Then another. Then three more in quick succession. 

He ignores it, grabs the edge of the couch and lifts himself upright. Glances around the room with narrowed eyes. 

“Connor?” He calls, getting to his feet. 

No answer. His phone buzzes, vibrates across the table and falls to the floor. 

“I’m fired. I’m fucking fired.” Hank mutters, a little manic as he digs the heel of his hands into his eyes, “Connor!” 

Sumo barks twice from somewhere beyond the living room at his voice. Hank, curious, follows the sound down the hallway. The door to Connor’s room is partly open and Hank pushes it wider to find Connor lying on top of the covers with his eyes closed, bare feet wedged under Sumo’s belly from where the dog is spread out across the foot of the bed. 

“Well how about that,” Hank says to himself, “You do sleep.” 

Sumo lifts his head from where it was resting on Connor’s shin, tilts it with ears perking when Hank looks at him. 

“Are you supposed to be on the furniture?” Hank says quietly and Sumo drops his head back down. Eyes peering up under furry eyebrows as if to say:  _ Why no, I’m not, but do you really have the heart to ruin this? _

Hank rolls his eyes, walking over to the side of the bed and sets a hand down on Connor’s shoulder and gives it a shake. 

Connor’s eyes open immediately, LED brightening significantly at the stimulation. 

“Did you sleep well?” Hank asks, amused.

“Androids don’t-” Connor shakes his head, and there is something akin to a smile on his face, “I believe so.” 

Connor’s LED blinks yellow, and he frowns, sitting up. Sumo, peace having been thoroughly disrupted, slides off the bed with a huff to scamper down the hallway. 

“Captain Fowler has left several messages.” Connor says after a moment, straightening his hair back to perfection, “We… are in trouble.” 

“You’re telling me,” Hank sits down on the edge of the bed, cranes his head to the ceiling, “We really need to figure this shit out before we’re both out on our asses.” 

Connor nods, standing up and walking over to the closet. Pulling out a suit from the small selection hanging from the rod, “I was attempting to repair my systems during my...sleep. But, I am still missing a large chunk of information. It’s like… I didn’t exist for a time.”

Hank sits back on his hands, “I’ve had my fair share of blackouts. I’ve never heard of an android having one, though.” 

Connor pulls off his sleep shirt before sliding into the sleeves of his dress shirt, “It’s an uncommon occurrence and there are protocols in place to prevent data loss to this extent.I would like to confer with Markus in regards to this.”

“Markus, as in the android rebel leader? Since when are you so chummy?” 

“He was the catalyst for my own deviation.” Connor says, adjusting his collar, “I’m curious to see if this is simply a byproduct to my reprogramming. It would also be a good idea to canvas Jericho while we are there.” 

“See if any of them knew our android?” 

“Yes,” Connor says, “I’m concerned about this. To have nothing…it’s like I intentionally-” 

His eyes widen, fingers frozen at the top button of his shirt. His voice is quiet when he murmurs,  _ “The first question is time.” _

“What?”  

Connor is still for a second, gaze intense and focused. His LED begins to blink, and blink, and blink. Then his eyes start to flicker in time, flashing side to side, up and down in a spastic motor tic. His head twitches, chin jerking and he suddenly snaps his head in Hank’s direction. His eyes focus on Hank, dull and lifeless, before rolling back into Connor’s head. Then Connor's entire body begins to spasm.

“What the fuck?!” Hank says, high and reedy. Scooting as far back into the headboard as he can manage, watching his partner’s bout of demonic possession in unhelpful horror.

Then, Connor just...stops. His face resetting between one second and the next. Hank doesn’t move, even when Connor’s eyes brighten and he looks at Hank, eyebrows raising as he observes Hank’s stance, crouched low and tight against the back of the bed.. 

“I apologize, was I saying something?” Connor says. 

They stare at each other for a beat, before Hank whispers again, “What the _ actual fuck _ ?”

* * *

Initializing__Data___Transference

10.00%.......

30.40%........

48.30%........

65.20%....... 

70.10%.......

93.60%........

100.00%.....

Transfer_Complete_

Beginning data analysis….

Installing_Observation_Program

**!Warning!**

RK800_model_# 313248317_ **52** _System_OS_Eden3.2_Class_5_Cyberlife_Clearance_Android

Proceeding_with_ACTION_may_result_in_UNSTABLE_behavior

Proceed_with_data_implementation?

…..

….

…

.

**[X] Confirm**

 


End file.
